Fashion Weak

The other day, my preschooler announced that she needs to be fashionable. Now, I don’t know where she came up with this notion, but I can only imagine it was something she picked up in school. Apparently, the three to four year old set needs to keep up with the latest trends. Who knew peer pressure started so young?

I suppose it is normal for her to want to conform, though I’d much prefer she follow her own path than one set by the fashion industry or the kid who sits next to her at lunch. I’d love to see her be her own woman. Right now she wants to be her own woman in designer styles. Whatever the inspiration for this newest desire, one thing is for sure, it didn’t originate from me.

I have never been fashionable. Even if I cared to be, I haven’t a clue as to how. I have the same hairdo from the eighties. Granted it is no longer the crimped and sprayed to three feet above my head style, but it is basically the same haircut, just flatter and less sticky. My hair is naturally curly, which also means it is naturally frizzy. On humid days, I need to either tie it back or let it sprout like a Chia Pet.

Of course, even on the days when my hair is behaving, my wardrobe is nothing more than a means to cover my body. I do have some trendy yoga pants, though I don’t actually do yoga. I don’t even bend down to tie my shoes -- not because I’m lazy, but because flip-flops don’t have laces. These stretchable pants have less to do with stretching my limbs and more to do with stretching the material to fit over my rear end.

In terms of style, I have had my variations, but even in my hey-days, I adopted the more eclectic style…think Cyndi Lauper meets Edward Scissorhands.

When I outgrew that phase, I wore nothing but black for a decade. People thought I was making a statement. Really, it was the only way to pull together an outfit and just fade into the background. No one expected me to be fashionable because black was my fashion. There was no thought process involved, just the simplicity of always having a matching get up.

And of course there was the whole notion that black can make you look five pounds thinner. So I wore four layers, hoping to drop twenty.

And let me not forget the cut off flannel shirt over torn jeans look. Back then they called it the “critter” which was the “cool” term for rocker chick. Later it evolved to the “grunge” look. Nowadays it is the Larry the Cable Guy. And if I decided to wear it again now, at least I have the waistline to match.

Even my vacuum is unfashionable. In this day of luxury cars and purses, even your appliances need to be branded. Kitchenaid…Viking…Dyson. I have a vacuum. I don’t even know the brand. We bought it at Lowes and it sucks. Translate that to mean what you want, all definitions are applicable. It isn’t a cool, sleek model and it doesn’t have a custom color. I don’t know if it ever loses suction, but I do know it can suck up the cat hair, cracker crumbs and a whole village of Polly Pockets.

My purse is from Target and it pretty much holds the same contents as my vacuum. It cost nine dollars, red tagged down from twenty eight. My rule of thumb is to never spend more on a purse than you will ever carry inside of it. At nine bucks, I’ve got things covered. Most days.

I suppose in my little girl’s quest to become fashionable, she is going to have to find her own way. Or get a job. Heaven knows there is no way her father and I can afford a Coach backpack. Even if we had that kind of money to spare, we’d probably spend it on some other luxury, like electricity.

Or maybe splurge on a trip to the spa for a yoga class and updated hair style.