Megan, Fashionably Late

When I was awkwardly stumbling into my teenage years, I embraced the world of high-end fashion, fashion models, make up, beauty, and the wonderful artistic achievement of it all.  On the other side of this coin of extravagance, there was the hilarity of intense absurdity that can go terribly, terribly awry.  I recall scrounging up change, "borrowing" $5 here and there, and traipsing across my drab little mill town to CVS or Lincoln Drug in search of the latest magazines.  I would religiously follow Miu Miu (dreamy Tea Cup heel featured above), Calvin Klein, and Gucci, amongst countless others whose names I cannot recall and probably couldn't pronounce at the tender age of eleven. 

Unfortunately, I managed to seal my fate the day that I revealed to my mother and aunt that I really wanted to be a model when I grew up.  I idolized their apparent confidence, impeccable clothing and outfits, stunningly beautiful applied faces, and the photographs -- both the ornate and the simple.  The colors!  The adjectives that would fly into my mind just by considering their advertisements, spreads, runways -- stunning, exquisite, nonpareil, avante garde.  It was all terribly exciting to me and why should I not want to be a part of that?  My aunt was blindly supportive, but my mother was (understandably) a harder sell.

To a concerned and confused mother, this signals the beginning of the end for their daughter.  Eating disorders, distorted body image, and the throwing away of the pursuance of academic excellence flood their minds.  Or, at least for my mother it did.  I was instantly barraged by, "You don't want to do that!"  "That's not healthy!"  Yadda, yadda, yadda.  I held on strong for a few months, but slowly allowed myself to succumb to the lack of external support.  I immediately shoved the magazines on my bookshelf, stopped browsing the websites, and put the possibility of watching the then-popular televised fashion shows out of mind. 

I made it through the majority of my teenage years simply in denim and sweaters, no make-up, and my hair was either chopped in a pixie cut or pulled back in a single pony tail.  Very bland.  I didn't have a plethora of female friends and my mother didn't spend any quality feminine time with me to teach me how to "pretty myself up".  At sixteen, I cracked.  I bought some Doc Martens, some black skirts, and dark tops and began being classified as a goth from anyone who saw me and bothered to take any stab at shoving me into a subcultural definition.  I possibly tried to throw foundation on and when stuck at home, and only when stuck at home, would play around with eye liner.

To keep a long story somewhat short, I didn't really start wearing make-up until I was 24 and at 25 just started wearing blush.  There is still an uneven amount of influence from my 'darker days' apparent in my daily clothing than anything even remotely mirroring what I was interested in as a pre-teen and very early teen.  I stifled the interest and then started loathing it.  I told myself that I was deeper than that, I was above caring about clothing and accessorizing and being a woman as dictated by magazines and modern culture.  I would pity those that indulged in the pursuit of knowledge, expression, and purchasing of designer wear, because there are so many better things to spend your money on.  All that I have been doing, is a big fat denial of some aspect of who I am and of an interest that used to be very important to me.  I have been brimming with bullshit.

The purpose of this blog is to cultivate my re-introduction into this world.  I may not now (or ever) be able to afford the designs of Miu Miu or whatever other designers that I may awaken a taste for, but that should never dissuade me from indulging in learning and devouring everything that I can about them.  And who knows, possibly one day I will be able to afford something other than Betsey Johnson when found on extreme discount....