My ex-roomate Red and I went for a walk Monday. We walked over to Fremont, letting our whims carry us like they used to in our earlier college years. We talked as we walked along the canal, sharing our concerns and joys; confiding secrets we’d held inside all year that we couldn’t share before since we weren’t living together. We came to the main strip of Fremont and ducked inside the boutiques. We oohed and ahed at clothing we’d probably never buy (regardless, thank the Lord we didn’t have our wallets), and agreed that we both needed to clean out our closets. As I was looking at a scarlet tanktop with sage pasley trim and lace, she suddenly anounced with the confidence of a new convert “You know, you never dress in the style you like. You love all these things, but you still dress the same way you did freshman year.” She was right. I looked down at my jeans, candy apple red softball t-shirt and flip flops I’d had since 9th grade. After discussing it a bit more (she’d really hit a vein and was letting it drain, feeding on every last drop); she came to the conclusion that Abercrombie screwed up the natural growth of my cultural vintage/ethnic style. Working there apparently detrailed the organic process of my fashion identity. Imagine that.
It was getting close to 5:30 when we started down the side street towards Golden Gardens. We passed two other stores and pressed our noses to the windows, since they were closed. I was sad I couldn’t go in because, although I’d lived here for four years, I’d never set foot in either of these stores which really spoke to the spirit of my apperal style. I’ll have to go back soon.
Of course, I’ll go back when my parents come to visit. My mom was lamenting the other day that she didn’t really know who I was anymore and she probably would be terrible at picking out clothes for me. I told her that wasn’t true, she’d be great at finding things for me….all it takes is practice. I told her she should practice as much as possible and I’d let her know how she was doing.
