When it comes to our two granddaughters, my husband has a competitive streak. Since Claire was a toddler, he’s bragged about wearing high fashion. I’ve witnessed shouting matches between the two over who wins the title. Claire with her rubber boots, matching swimming goggles and long velvet dress. Her grandpa in his own eccentric getup. As they fight it out, knee to nose, the rest of us flee the room with our fingers stuffed in our ears.
Even two year old Charlotte participates. “Coachie, you’re low fashion,” she cries in her adorable lisp. He falls for it every time, and they holler back and forth until eventually someone’s in tears. We just sigh and hand him a kleenex.
If I had to pick a low fashion point in my own life, it would be the mid eighties through the nineties. Simply put, my clothes were butt ugly. Jewel coloured oversized tee shirts with matching bedazzled jackets. Acid washed mom jeans with a waist band so high, it sat directly beneath my breasts. Christmas sweaters with crap sewn on them, worn with a complete lack of irony.
It was a comfortable era. I never had a waistband that wasn’t stretchy. A long ugly hoodie over some unattractively baggy tights was the perfect outfit for cleaning out the garage or heading over to a friend’s party. There was no such thing as under dressing. Here is an example. We’re all in pink, I’m in a sweat suit and my hair has been permed with a $3 Toni kit. We were probably going to a wedding.
I still like to be comfortable. I have tuxedo pants that, yes, stretch at the waist. I enjoy wearing jeggings tucked into boots and covered with a long sweater. Lycra seems a little sturdier these days, and the tops aren’t as oversized as they used to be. Or perhaps I’ve just grown into them. Since I only wear stretchy clothes, I’ll never know for sure. Maybe I’ll never be high fashion. But Clarence has given me two thumbs up on some new items. So that means I’m good. Right?