Dressed to the Nines for Ninth Grade

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"The clothes we select for ourselves are a better indicator of who we think we are than our faces or our bodies, which we didn't choose. Clothes are our one chance to right whatever physical wrongs God has imposed on us. They can be a mirror of what's inside, a veneer of camouflage, or a map of your aspirations." --Amy M. Spindler, New York Times Magazine

When I first read the above words as printed in the "Points to Ponder" section of Readers' Digest, I tore the page out, folded it and tucked into my journal for keeps. It was a profound truth -- one that rocked my fifteen year-old unsure and yet emerging confidence. There were countless things I stewed over that I couldn't do to alter my exterior. No matter how many crunches I did, I would never have the iron-board Demi Moore stomach I hungered after. No matter how many Pilates classes I completed faithfully, I simply would not grow to the lanky height of the video instructor and her skinny sidekicks. But, I could choose the outward expression of my interior. I could, I can always choose my clothes.

When it comes to attire, I've long been vocally pro-choice. I’ve always known what I’ve liked, period. I still hear about the stifling August afternoon that I refused to disrobe from my cupcake-appliqué Joggle sweat suit. Even at the age of three, I had an unwavering sense of style.

Before I was sixteen, I was ever-devising plans to coerce my mother into shopping trips. I'd bait her with promises to clean the house from top to bottom. Never mind the fact that I didn't have the (or any) income to support my borderline-shopaholic tendencies. I pored over Vogue pages, vying to reproduce the fashions with my own middle school interpretations. The desire to dress well only magnified with age. When I emerged on high school, my quest for couture had reached its zenith. 
 
A pocket-sized purple notebook, nestled in my top dresser drawer, recorded my weekly schedule of outfits. Between its two worn covers is recorded every ensemble I wore during my four years at Chattahoochee High School. It still lies there, untouched since the last day of my senior year: the day I wore my white linen capris, blue and white wide-striped polo shirt, white backless topsiders with a navy blue ribbon in my hair.

Every day, every week, for four whole years, I set aside Sunday afternoons for choosing the entire weeks' picks. I reveled in those afternoons in which my closet would explode onto the surface of my bedspread, as I mixed and matched my way into the week's fashion forecast.