Lip Smackers and High Waists

I was a teen in the early 2000s. Every once in a while I get phantom whiffs of blueberry roll-on glitter and Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers. Jeans and velour track pants had waistlines that idled haphazardly around the pubic bone. The zippers were all of three inches long. I wasn’t the skinniest teen. So the low-rise movement didn’t do my husky figure any favors. My sisters diagnosed it as “receding butt-crack.” Don’t laugh. There are dozens of us. DOZ-ZENS. It really was the damn pants. I swear.

When my mother suggested I try jeans from the women’s department, I was aghast. I already had braces and boyishly short hair. Wear mom jeans with the iconic baggy butt and bosom-high waistband to school and I would have been verbally flogged. Not that I made savvy fashion choices of my own. I wore a SpongeBob Squarepants tee shirt with the eyes located right, well, figure it out. I attempted bright blue eyeshadow. I gelled my already short into a Sguiggy-like do that welded into a flaky helmet. To add to all that charm, I picked at it during class. It was a tough decade.

Fashion of the 2000s was obnoxious. Girls placed stickers in precarious locations on their hips. Once they achieved that lovely tanning booth hue, somewhere between saddle leather and Tang, their pelvic bones read, “Nobody’s Angel” or “Miss-Understood.” My favorite was the totally inappropriate Playboy Bunny sticker dispensed by the vending machine at the skating rink. My natural hips are located slightly lower than my nipples, so sticker tattoos were not really an option for me.

I have an old friend, Rachel.  Even in second grade she took life by the horns, grabbed it, and told it who was boss. When recalling those days it’s all too easy to picture her with a cigarette dangling from her lip and can of Bud Light clutched in her little hand. One day we were in high school home economics class together and I was debating whether to start tanning.

Like a wise old cowboy at the end of a bar, Rachel leaned back from her sewing machine. “You know what I always say, tanned fat looks better than white fat.”

My god, my 17-year-old mind thought, I should cross-stitch that onto a pillow.

Naturally, my view on tanning has changed since then. I’ve had too many little “anomalies” removed to even consider poking a toe into one of those UV coffins. And, thank God, my fashion choices have matured.

I would describe my style as, “self-aware.” I have never worn a romper or a jumpsuit because the result is a 5’3” tattooed toddler. Plus, I find a romper’s level of vulnerability in public restroom situations disconcerting. I am self-conscious about my flaws. I don’t like to show my upper arms or armpits. Point out a woman who likes to actively show off her pits, and your next deodorant stone is on me. And, like Queen Elizabeth’s knees, my navel will remain covered. I just started attempting the top-knot bun. Until my hair finally reached an acceptable length, if I tried to wear my hair up I resembled Madam Trunchbull from Matilda. Because contacts dry out my eyes, I wear thick framed glasses. I’ve chosen to call it a trademark. It’s The frames because I have always been mildly obsessed with Lisa Loeb.

This summer I purchased my first sun hat. I decided that a mommy-son pool party at my friend Meghan’s would be a perfect opportunity to premiere my new accessory. I kept asking my friends “Where do you summer?” as I sauntered around with a Bloody Mary like Sonya Morgan of Real Housewives on a yacht. Then, because the brim flopped over my eyes, I tripped over a deck chair, also much like Sonya Morgan.

Your personal style is everything you make it. I’m a plus sized girl. There’s no shame. I like my jeans tight and my shirts loose. I’m a perfect 14/16 in Lane Bryant. I’m an 18 or XXL in J Crew. I like a simple necklace, and basic studs in my ears. While I’ve thrown SpongeBob back into his pineapple, sometimes I still do a goofy graphic tee. I’m not big on heels because God gifted me with feet that will double as flippers if the glaciers continue melting at their current rate. My underwear waistband has risen with the sea levels.

I make an effort if I’m going to be seen in public. Sometimes I make myself look cute even if the farthest place I’m going is to the mailbox. I watch Queer Eye and take detailed notes on skin care and how to tuck in a t-shirt. I have finally accepted that I have curly hair. I have accepted my savior J Crew into my life. I love a good basic. I live in cardigans, V-necks, and skinny jeans. Ever since I decided to stop working and stay home, I treat my wardrobe as one would a newborn baby. Because I can’t afford to easily replace them, I softly sing, “Not While I’m Around,” from Sweeney Todd to my dry-clean only sweaters. I hum Bette Midler classics as I sway and pet my beloved wool plaid skirts. But, I live in the real world. A really real world where there are cat claws and sticky preschooler mitts, sauce splatters, and spilled wine. There is mother-effin’ slime.

Your style changes with the seasons and the years. If you want to change it up or try something new, DO IT. You’re never too old or too fat to try something that will boost your spirit and your confidence. Wear what’s comfortable and wear what makes you feel good.

But, if high-waisted jeans ever go out of style, I’m screwed. Actually, whatever patriarchal asshat who decides they are passé, is screwed. Women will collectively rise up, adjust those God blessed high waists and scream, “WE WILL NOT GO QUIETLY BACK INTO THE NIGHT!” I might have used a quote from Independence Day. But you get my point.

Oh, and take a tip from me: everyone needs a good denim jacket!