Strike a Pose

I was shocked to discover today that they’re still making Chic and Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. Back in the day, I was the proud owner of both, as well as jeans made by Sasson and Jordache. I also had a pair of rust colored corduroys that were so thick, my inner thighs swished when I walked down the hall in school. Unless I walked like a bowlegged cowboy, I really wouldn't have been able to sneak up on anyone while wearing those.

No doubt about it though - I was styling - or so I convinced myself at the time. Until I was in my mid teens all of my clothes were ordered from cinder block sized catalogs: Sears, Montgomery Ward or JC Penney. In fact, these tomes were so valuable, a hint of excitement filled the air once the new catalogs arrived. All within one massive book, one could order a wedding gown, a bathrobe, an exercise bike and new drapes. 

Sears Catalog 1981

I even liked the smell of the catalogs. But then, I have a soft spot for the smell of paper - always have, always will. As I circled in pen, outfit after outfit within these hefty books, I was certain I would look just as stylish and stunning as the lean models therein that posed in unnatural positions. In fact, when I tried on my new outfits prior to school, I too posed in the same unnatural positions. Much to my surprise, I never was able to capture the same stylish look. Of course, my Dorothy Hamill haircut and large, tinted pink glasses didn’t help matters. 

Hence the need to up my cool factor: enter the perm. Nothing says cool better than a tight perm. I looked just like our poodle, but I didn’t mind. Sitting at the local beauty salon, I would stare at the large pictures of glamorous women hanging on the wall. I wanted to look like them. And of course, after pointing at the posters and telling the beautician what I wanted (they rarely were called stylists back then), I leaned my head back onto the torture device known as the sink bowl, closed my eyes, and prepared myself for the transformation that I was sure would arrive. 

That transformation never did arrive. Or if it did, it happened only after I stopped trying to look like someone else. Its safe to say, somewhere in my late thirties I finally figured that out. As flowers go - I was a late bloomer. And to this day, I still can’t say I resemble any of those women hanging on the beauty salon wall or within the pages of any catalogs. In fact, I don’t look like anyone. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

But just for fun, I wouldn’t mind throwing on a pair of ankle tight, belly-button-high Chic Jeans and a sweater with built-in shoulder pads. Notice in the photo above that even the family dog wasn't sure why I was making such a strange face. Little did he know - I knew how to strike a pose.

Sane