I am not a very fashionable person. I never have been. Fashion is, in my mind, one of those things that society tells us to adhere to. “The clothes make the man,” they say. Shows like What Not to Wear and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy support this statement. But on my list of priorities, the fashion of an article of clothing drops below “does it keep me warm?” and “does it come close to fitting?” which may seem like an obvious choice to some people, but actually isn’t.
I am not, however, a complete fashion victim. I know I’m not because I now dress a great deal better and more fashionably than I did in high school.
Back then, I wore shirts that had at least one X in their size, though I didn’t need to. As head painter in my high school drama club, every piece of clothing I owned with, the exception of underwear was paint-splattered. My pants were often too tight, and I wore every pair of shies into the grave. I couldn’t even say that my clothes were terribly functional, as was indicated by the fact that, on one extremely memorable occasion, performing in the anti-teenaged-drinking play, Sobering Thoughts, before an audience of middle school teachers, I crouched down to pick up a discarded beer can, and my pants split. Right across my left butt-cheek. They simply couldn’t contain my ass anymore. It was right in the middle of the play, but fortunately my shirt was over-sized enough to cover it when I was standing.
On homecoming week dress up days, I wore men’s suits instead of dresses. If I wore a skirt to school, I would be immediately bombarded by shocked looks and hopeful complements, destroying my comfortable sense of anonymity. The rare occasions when I’d dress in something I thought looked good, I’d draw comments on how weird I was.
I longed to experiment, and came up with elaborate, stylish outfits, but they mostly stayed locked away in my brain because I didn’t have the self-confidence to try.
I was Jeans-and-T-shirt Girl personified.
So when, for a sociology project based on breaking social norms, my friend Liz proposed showing up to school in homecoming outfits, I said okay. At least, after all, there would be two of us.
The day came. My best friend spent the day communicating through a sock puppet. Another of my friends wore his full renaissance faire outfit, making him look like Robin Hood. I wore a bronze velour dress that didn’t come near my knees, my hair carefully styled, full make up, and brown suede heels. Liz sat defensively in the hallway, in jeans and a sweater.
“I forgot.” She glared at me, and thrust one of her sneakers in my face. “I’m going to wear only one shoe.”
I was upset, though not terribly surprised. Liz and I had entered this pact because neither of us had the guts to be overdressed alone. But one shoe was just a cop out based on our friend Christie’s project the year before, when she’s spent the day barefoot. I went to my locker and nearly collapsed, twisting my ankle in my heels.
Dressing up wasn’t breaking a social norm. What I wore, some girls wore on a daily basis. It was FASHION. I took off my heels.
In my backpack was a full set of clothing I had planned to change into after school. But that wasn’t a social norm either, that was just ME.
I also had a pair of Birkenstocks and a pair of turquoise socks. I put those on, over my panty hose, stuffed my heels in my locker, and headed off to class. Turquoise socks with a bronze dress would have to do.
All day I listened to the talk in the hallway:
“Did you see Robin Hood? What a dork!”
“She called it ‘Precious Roy’. Kept having it SMILE at me.”
“Why is Liz limping?”
And most often:
“Oh my GOD, look at her socks!”
Word spread pretty quickly that the social norm breaking project was in gear, and Robin Hood and Sock-Puppet Girl were forgiven and congratulated. But they wouldn’t let the socks go.
“That’s a gorgeous dress, but is she color blind?”
“Socks with sandals? That’s last year’s bad look.”
“Isabel,” one girl confronted me, “that better be your sociology project.”
And so it went, all day.
I didn’t bring attention to it; there was no need. The socks I loved and wore so often masked by jeans were like twin turquoise spot lights. And I loved it.
It was just so silly. My failed group project became a masterpiece that was mine alone. I practically glowed with confidence, even as my legs turned a complimentary blue underneath the hose in the November weather.
Two weeks later, we had to turn in our project reports, and our teacher asked us for any observations.
“That was awesome,” Robin Hood said. “I love doing that.” Robin Hood had also, for Halloween, wandered around the school in his younger sisters’ clothing.
We all agreed. The teacher said that Robin Hood had chosen a great idea. But one girl in the back raised her hand.
“Um,” she said, “what did you do?”
“He wandered around in medieval clothing.” Our teacher frowned. “Didn’t you notice?”
“I guess not.” She crossed her legs and looked pointedly at me. “I was too busy staring at her SOCKS.”
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