As a child, there isn’t generally much you’re too concerned about. You play. You eat. You love your parents. Life is enjoyable and without complication.
When I was a kid, the last thing I was worried about was my appearance. Comfort was what mattered. Comfort and functionality (though I probably didn’t call it that back then). Thus, as a child, when I got to choose what outfit to wear, it might be a dress, not so much because it’s cute, but because it’s airy and comfy. If I had to wear pants, it was only sweatpants, or my personal favorite, windpants (thank you 90s). Never, EVER would I wear a pair of jeans. Those were highly uncomfortable. Why would I want to put that on my body?
Blissfully I defied the laws of fashion until I reached fifth or sixth grade. This was about the age that my peers, or more specifically the really mean she-devils, began to question my choice in clothing. Thus began my quest to “fit in” or as the title suggests, the beginning of my long journey of “caring”.
Thus have I tried, and often failed, in my attempts to follow the ever changing rules and trends of fashion. Of course, as a teenager who hailed from a rather poor, redneck Mainer family, I had little hope of fitting in with the popular girls and their beautiful clothes. Let’s not even mention the goth phase, which at the time seemed simply fabulous.
Now as an adult I can’t leave the house without my face plastered in makeup and a nice business casual outfit in tow. Since graduating college I’m even ashamed to wear a simple t-shirt when I go out.
All in all, I must say I look forward to the fabled day the old ladies tell me about where you start getting grays, stop getting noticed by people, and therefore can wear whatever the hell you want.