When I Am Old, I Shall Wear Vintage

This reminds me of my plaid jumper.
This painting available for purchase
from Studio Beerhorst.

I remember the last time I wore it. At church, waiting to be seated by the usher, it struck me, "I'm too old to be wearing this." Despite having switched out the Peter-Pan-collared blouse for a simple white turtleneck a few years prior, the jumper my mom wore in junior high--how's that for a hand-me-down?--just looked a little too juvenile for a woman nearing the 30-year mark. Even with its fitted bodice and quality wool fabric, it still suggested a Catholic schoolgirl uniform.

Upon graduating high school and entering the fine arts milieu, I threw off the shroud of jeans and sweatshirt ubiquity, no longer having to guard against the deprecating looks of my peers. In music school, talent garnered respect, and, as my teacher stated, "When God handed out talent, he gave you an extra helping." So I went bold, though it was conservative bold. And that meant vintage dresses.

Nearing a decade post-college, as I waited to be seated that Sunday morning, I felt self-conscious in my tartan jumper. Within the week, I returned it to my mom; it hangs in her spare closet still. Today, while I only faintly genuflect to fashion (I still won't wear opposing plaids), neither am I notable in any way. This doesn't keep me from browsing the lovely vintage dresses on Etsy and "favoriting" an especially fine specimen. To be young again, to be a student again, to dare to wear vintage dresses again!

Last week as I sat in church, I couldn't help noticing the elderly woman in an adjacent pew, sporting a tartan plaid Pendleton two-piece outfit, a throwback to a decade when things were simpler. Then I knew: When I am old, I shall wear vintage. Only then, the clothes will have aged with me.

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Embarrassed to Be Me

When I first meet someone, I make an attempt to pass for normal. But, when I'm introduced by a friend, I realize it's already too late when I hear the inevitable, "So you're the one who ________ " (fill in the blank with something unusually thrifty, or some curiosity I've sold online). I feel relieved if it's only mildly embarrassing. 

Last week I volunteered at New2You, the thrift store that supports my son's school. Introducing myself to Kris, a fellow volunteer, she began, "I remember hearing about you"--Oh, no, I thought, wondering what strange tidbit she'd present--"from someone, but I don't know who, and I don't remember what." Could it be from the other Laura, about the distressed feminist T-shirt I rescued from the thrift store trash bin last time I volunteered, or could it be from Pam, about the lip balm tin, or..., The possibilities raced through my mind, but I successfully kept my mouth shut, reveling in a rare moment of being almost memorable, but not quite.

Perhaps it's because I was a misfit as a child, never quite so strange to be taunted openly, but unusual enough that the other kids would sacrifice their social standing by getting too chummy with me. My only truly loyal friend through middle school was a boy who sucked the spit from his braces at regular intervals. We'd play chess during lunch break. I think of him occasionally, considering if he ever outgrew his gawkiness. Part of me hopes not; the awkwardness was part of his charm.

I'd never want to relive middle school; I'm not sure anyone would. Perhaps if I had attempted to act more normal, I would've been accepted by my peers. But then I think of some of the most fun I've ever had. It was when I was being myself, with my friends.

And the most fun I've ever had volunteering at the thrift store? Definitely the time I rescued the T-shirt. Whenever I see Lora, she asks me if I've sold it. I trust I will, eventually, and I can't wait to forward the "Etsy Order Confirmation" email to her. We'll both be laughing. I'll probably even give a snort or two, even if it is embarrassing.

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