Excerpts from Kimmie’s Style Journal: an assignment from Dr. Waddle
I never told anybody this, but when my parents started having problems, I started seeing a shrink. I know, I know; it’s totally lame on so many levels, but what can I say?
I’m a closet dork.
Anyway, my shrink – Dr. Waddle, I like to call her, because she waddles like a duck and speaks with a quack – asked me to read the book Love, Loss, and What I Wore by Ilene Beckerman. The book chronicles the stand-out moments in the author’s life, using the clothing she wore at the time.
Because of my passion for fashion, Dr. Waddle suggested that I do the same, picking out the poignant points in my life, and indicating the clothing I was wearing for each occasion. She said that in doing so I’d be able to get to know myself better – as if all the moments together might collectively equal up to something meaningful.
But all this really seems to add up to is the fact that my negative stand-out moments far outnumber my positive ones.
My first stand-out moment:
The outfit: blue jeans with a star-shaped patch over the knee, pink hoodie sweatshirt with a rainbow appliqué on the front, and yellow tennis sneakers.
I was six years old, watching some neighborhood kids play the trust game next door. Nick, my nine-year-old neighbor with muscles (even back then), said he’d only let me hang out with them if I had enough “trust.” To prove that trust I had to fall backwards from a standing position, allowing him to catch me.
I didn’t really feel like doing it, but it sure beat playing by myself in the hell-heat of summer when Nick’s swimming pool was only a backyard away. And so I closed my eyes, held my breath, pictured a whole heap of feathers beneath me, and allowed myself to fall. Only, instead of being caught, I landed down hard against the pavement.
It took me a few seconds to realize what’d happened – that Nick had backed away as part of some cruel and evil joke. When I got up and saw his stupid-ass grin, I could feel the tears burning in my eyes. But not because I’d just hurt my tailbone, as well as my pride. But because in that moment I was able to grasp a very real and horrible truth: that you can’t always take people at their word.
Moment #2
The outfit: an orange cheerleader jumper with a white turtleneck underneath, matching orange knee-high socks, and black and white saddle shoes.
In the third grade I made the trek over to Zachary Meyerhoff’s house to see if he wanted to buy some candy to support our cheerleading squad’s* fundraiser. I’d been majorly crushing on Zach ever since the first day of the second grade, when he told me that I was the most beautiful girl in the class, and when afterwards we played basketball in the schoolyard while our moms chatted about environmentally friendly lunchboxes and where to buy the best lunchmeat.
I remember how nervous I was, standing in front of his house, my arms loaded with boxes of light, dark, and nut-filled chocolate bars. Wearing a pair of saddle shoes two sizes too small – because they were shinier than my normal pair and made my enormous feet look petite – I made it up his walkway. And finally knocked on his door.
Zach answered a couple minutes later, but he wasn’t alone. Two other boys from our class – Jeffrey Wallach and Tom Cousins – were with him. All laughed at the sight of me in my bright orange uniform, calling me things like Kimmie the Carrot Stick, Tangerine Queen, and making up cheers of their own with words like stupid, beak-nose, and bowlegged beetle.
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