If you were a betting type, you could invite me to a social event and be certain I’ll show up in black. I have worn black almost exclusively for the last two decades, ever since escaping from my parents’ home. I almost bought a black wedding dress.
I was not tapped by the beauty fairy with her magical wand of loveliness. I’ve always leaned toward the chubby. I have a round face, with a soft jawline. My hair is thick and frizzy, reminiscent of a dandelion in July.
In school, I longed to slip away from elementary society and find a nice corner in which to read, rather than present my bulk for bullying to my classmates. This was not okay for my social butterfly mother, who wanted her daughters to sparkle and not take after her introvert husband in any way. I was forced into tap dance lessons, led by a man called Mr. Bill who adored costumes so bright they could be seen from Venus. My mother loved neon pink shirts and teal pants and anything that deposited a kitten or a puppy on my early-developing chest.
We really entered the canyon of horror when my mother, who never trained or worked as a hair stylist, thought it would be a fine idea to perm my hair. I wound up spending several years with burns on my neck and scalp, and being the only Irish Catholic girl in school with an Afro. Even the parochial school uniform didn’t give me a chance to blend in with that hair.
One of my most vivid school memories is showing up for a field trip in a lime-green tennis dress – with matching shorts! The top was too tight, as my mother refused to believe her baby was developing, making my panic-attack breathing even harder to pull off.
Things descended in high school, where the fashion stakes were raised. I observed, like Margaret Mead, other girls actually going to the mall to buy their own clothes. They picked them out! By themselves! I was given a pink button-down shirt – even the collar buttoned down – to wear with purple corduroy pants and a purple sweater vest. That earned me the title of Grape Ape. I was given a weird stretch knit unitard item, styled with a turtleneck and wide green stripes across the chest, which really did wonders for my D-cups. My mother was like a mad scientist, cruising K-Mart and Bradlees and Sears for clothes: More polyester! More ruffles! More flowers! More stripes! Ooooh! Polka dots!
Years after my escape, years after I started earning my own money and doing my own shopping, filling my closet with black sweaters, and skirts, and boots, and tights, my mother was still giving me hideous bright clothing, trying to lure me into her toxic rainbow. On my 25th birthday, I opened a box of pink flowers, meant to be worn as a shirt. My grandmother could take no more. “Noreen,” she said to my mother, taking a long drag on her Tarryton 100s, “she doesn’t wear that shit, for Chrissakes. Give her money.”
Now, I dip my toe into the color pool every now and then. At the age of 37, I have purchased a purple dress. And a blue one! Even though my husband tells me I look beautiful in color, I feel gigantic and swollen in color, like I’m lumbering through my day. I can’t shake that girl in the lime-green dress, and how she felt, and how she yearned for a dark suit of armor.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0fSEjlLQcRY
