It’s the first day back to school and finally, I met her: The Tall One’s (girl)friend. (See Meeting Snuffleupagus) She was standing at the front door just over one hour ago with polished black hair, black lines around her eyes and a long black… something or other.
Do you see the common denominator here?
The girlfriend wore BLACK and this immediately triggered a distress call. Danger ahead! My paranoid and slightly judgmental inner voice rang; you think this girl is trouble because she’s wearing her dark side on her outside. And, because you can’t see her eyes through all that dark makeup. I found myself squinting intently at her and I still couldn’t tell. Was she looking at me?
The Tall One recognized my mounting apprehension and quickly ushered his friend away from the house and into the getaway car.
That’s when it hit me. I’m alarming THEM! I’m the uptight Stepmom at the front door, the thirty(ish) woman completely disconnected from her youth. Oh Dear God! I’ve lost touch with my fifteen-year-old self.
I think dressing like Siouxsie (without her banshees) was the armor I wore to hide my vulnerability.
When I was fifteen, I wore heaps of black. Layers of black lace, ripped leggings, tattered skirts that hung down to the sidewalk and gloves with the fingers chopped off. My mother confirmed this morning that the memory of myself is correct and even threw in, “You were pretty scary looking.”
Thanks Mom.
I don’t necessarily agree that I was a fright to behold. You can’t appear too shocking with plump and pink cheeks like I had. I was hardly a death angel.
For me, wearing black was a fashion statement (and not necessarily a good one), and it was also my timid way of surviving the socially awkward teen years. On some days, black was my way to get noticed. On others, it was my attempt to be ignored. Looking back, I think dressing like Siouxsie (without her banshees) was the armor I wore to hide my vulnerability. I hoped the dark textures (patent leather and polyester) would protect me from a world I didn’t yet understand, and cover up my changing body, which was an even bigger mystery.
I think, to some degree, my little “optical illusion” worked. Very rarely did adults ask me to reveal myself, ” Izzy, just who are you anyway?” More often I got, “What the hell are you wearing?”
So, if I look at The Tall One’s girlfriend through similar mascara-caked eyes, I can replace my stepmom assumptions with empathy.
I know this girl, even if she doesn’t know herself yet. And there’s nothing scary about her.
What were you wearing at 15? What are your (step)kids wearing? Add your comments.
Photography by Alexei Hay published in the New York Times Style Magazine, Fall 2007.
Posts 
I remember when my wardrobe consisted of my dad’s v-neck sweaters, plaid shorts from salvation army that I had to safety pin at the waist, and my stinky pair of vans. I thought I was so ska. I never wore anything that would show my butt.
My favorite was a pair of cropped black overalls, black vans, and a over sized tuxedo that was my granddads. With the bright “ziggy stardust” orange hair I must have looked a right sight.
Oh how I remember those years… *looks down at current clothes* Yup, just how I remembered them! High school, I was the girl no one knew and I loved it that way. Only, some did know me, I was the girl in combat boots, jeans, black shirt of some form and if I had makeup, I am sure it would have been black too… But makeup didn’t go too well with grease stains on my arms for the day’s workshop of trying to find out why the truck is still leaking… And now, (ok so not quiet 30) I still enjoy my black shirts, only this time they have funny sayings or something thought provoking…
YAY! A Snuffy spotting! I’m wondering if you saw my recent query to you in this regard in my comments.
So you didn’t technically meet her, but you did SEE her, and this is a step in the right direction. So she’s not 40, and you didn’t say anything about meth; and I’m taking both of these as positive indicators. Although I am wondering, did you see her teeth? ;-)
Also, I think we can all relate to the scary looking teenager phase. I am having vivid recollections of myself clad in torn jeans, big black boots, and draped in LOTS AND LOTS of flannel. Very champ of you to look back and see yourself in this young girl. Will be looking forward to hearing more about The Tall One’s girlfriend. (And don’t you love those moments when you catch yourself being a total mom/stepmom? Standing there checking out the gf and scaring everyone!? What a great post.)
I am laughing SO HARD right now at all of the recaps of your outfits. So funny, and of course, we all thought we looked great. My poor parents. My mom told me not too long ago that I had an orange face for like four years because I was wearing some cheap ass coverup. I said, “Why didn’t you buy me the right color?!” I was mortified. She said I wouldn’t have listened to any makeup advice she had.
Cindy,
I am going looking for your earlier query and will be inviting the GF over soon for dinner, at which time I will inspect her lovely young mouth with a flashlight.
IR- Long LIVE flannel and vans!
Alas, I’m a bit older than you, so my 15-year-old self was encapsulated in a humidity-proof shield of aquanet and feathered wings of bangs that warded off all parental input. This was quite a feat actually, growing up in swampy, steamy Florida. This stage happened to coincide with posing for senior portraits, thus my good fortune in having ample documentation of this lovely phase of my adolescence. Joy.
At 15, I was grunge baby! Plaid flannel shirts and jeans. Nothing exotic for me.
My 16 year old stepson is an enigma in many, many ways, but especially clothes. His wardrobe is 80% black, but don’t you DARE suggest he is goth or emo. Because he will set you straight in hurry that he is most definitely not! The other 20% of his wardrobe are those smart ass t-shirts. They can be any color as long as they are dripping with sarcasm. He gets that from his Dad :)
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Hmm…at 15 I was wearing all black, really big and baggy pants and was going through an entire black eyeliner every two weeks. Yep, your description sounds dead on.