A Humiliating Lesson in Fashion

I was in the sixth grade, the awkward stage between full child and preteen, and I knew nothing of fashion. At all. I hadn’t even the vaguest of notions. So, because of this handicap, I wasn’t the flashiest of dressers.

I had a jacket in the sixth grade, a very old and decrepit one belonging to my mother. I do not understand was possessed me to wear it, but I wore it still. It was ragged and fell to about my skinny knees. The outside was an obnoxious teal (85 percent polyester, 15 percent cotton), the interior a different, tacky purple nylon (100 percent). There was a large hole in the collar. Needless to say, it was completely abhorrent.

The occasion was reading class, fourth period. We were learning about prefixes and suffixes, and to better learn them our teacher forced us to volunteer to act out specific prefixed-words in front of the class. The class would then guess what the prefix was, and after a correct guess we would smile, clap, and cheer. And, I assume, if we guessed incorrectly, we would be deeply saddened, begin to cry, get burped, and then lay down for a nap, being in the sixth grade and all.

The word to be acted out had the prefix “poly” (meaning multiple, much, or many, if you weren’t aware). The person who volunteered to act it out was a guy named Wayne, who I still share classes with. Before going in front of the class, he stopped by my desk and asked if he could wear my jacket because it was multicolored, and would be a good example. “Sure,” I said.

So Wayne put on my jacket and proceeded to strut to whiteboard, like a model on the catwalk of some fashion show gone terribly, terribly awry. He was grinning and showing the inside of the jacket to the class, so they would be sure to notice the multiple colors.

Then a child, opposite of the room to me, probably having not seen Wayne get the jacket from me, shouted loudly: “Poly-UGLY?”

The class erupted with laughter. I shrunk to a smaller size, if that was even possible. I can’t recall the rest of the acting out or if we even guessed the answer, but I do remember that Wayne had to return my UGLY jacket to me at the end of the skit, and I had to wear it for the rest of the day, which was tremendously humiliating.

It was there, in that classroom, that I learned the definition of fashion. It was a quite important lesson to learn, and has helped me out immensely in life and in dressing. If it hadn’t occurred, maybe I would still be wearing my poly-UGLY jacket around campus.

Spelling Error Leads to Hypothetical Jail Time

After failing my first driver’s test and preparing extensively for my second test, I was determined to leave the DMV as a licensed driver. The test went without incident, and I scored a ninety-three. I was quite pleased to finally receive my license, and all I had left to do was take my license picture. With a multitude of folded papers in my grasp, my mother and I made our way to the photo area, which consists of a blue screen, a computer, a camera, a desk with a person standing behind it, and a little machine which you must autograph before getting your picture taken.

I didn’t understand the significance of the signature-machine when I had received my permit, so the signature underneath that picture was downright atrocious. Not this time. I explained to my mother that I planned to write my signature more skillfully, in order to make my license look more presentable.

“Remember,” my mother said evenly, “write slowly.”

I nodded and said of course I would. After all, it was obviously impossible for me to mess up a second time.

And then the photographer said, “Write your name here.” He gestured to the mechanical-signature-signing-like-grocery-stores-have-machine. I approached it confidently. I picked up the pen-but-not-really-a-pen. And I put it onto the screen, and attempted to sign my name legibly and gracefully. As I finished my first name, I smiled to myself.

No more catching Julia Eppes off guard, I thought. No more deception. I was going to do everything right: pass my drivers test right, write my name right, and drive right until I die right.

I put down the pen and scribbled my last name. Everything was going smoothly; it was indeed far more legible than my previous attempt. I was pleased until I reached the very end of my simple, five-letter last name. When I finished my name, I froze in disbelief. The realization hit me that I had written a second “s” at the end of my name.

It read “Julia Eppess.” The singular misplaced “s” multiplied rampantly before my eyes. Julia Eppessss. Julia Eppessssssss. Like some sort of serpent was saying my name, tongue flicking between its teeth. Sssss. Julia Eppessssssssssss.

Before I could object, the signature disappeared from the screen and the man told me to stand in from of the blue screen and look at the blue dot and smile. I felt incredibly foolish. How could I manage to misspell my own name in the first place? Secondly, I realized my name was going to be misspelled on my driver’s license until I get a new one in 2013. And a third, more disturbing idea came to mind: Could there be possible repercussions to having a differently spelled name in comparison to the printed name on the license?

My mind flashed to a hypothetical situation: being pulled over by a police officer, (for a hypothetically small offense such as going 30 miles per hour in a 25 zone, which actually knocked me down a few points on my driver’s test) and him taking one hypothetical look at my driver’s license. “Why is it spelled differently?” he would ask, hypothetically. “Good sir,” I would graciously reply, hypothetically, “I accidently spelled it incorrectly.” He would be hypothetically skeptical, and proceed to take me to the hypothetical “big house.”

And I would hypothetically go down in history as the kid who hypothetically (hysterically) spelled her own last name wrong.

The Purple Mohawk: An Absolutely Smashing Revelation

Some people believe in intelligent life-forms on other planets. Others believe in Bigfoot, or different variations of such a creature (Like a yeti or a Sasquatch). And many believe it was quite rude for Kanye West to interrupt Taylor Swift at the VMA’s. I, however, believe in something far more realistic- I believe that Kaydee should get a purple Mohawk.

My belief travels far back into the depths of my freshman year, when a majority of my school day was spent with Kaydee and our mutual friend, Rachel. It was from Rachel that the overall concept of a purple Mohawk was spawned. It began on a typical day in our sixth period P.E. class. We were sitting in the locker room, spending our final moments before being maliciously sent to run a few laps around the track chatting and taking turns spewing out the communal sentiment “I don’t want to run today!”

I remember it quite well- as if it was only about two years ago. I was sitting on the floor and Rachel on the bench. She said something, and I looked up at her to either speak or nod my head in agreement. It was from this specific vantage point that I visualized something incredible: a fan of violet hair standing on end, jutting out from Rachel’s skull.

“Rachel,” I said. “Have I ever told you that you would look absolutely smashing with a purple Mohawk?”

She disagreed. I was disappointed, of course, but I soon realized that I had been very wrong. I discovered that purple wasn’t really her color.

It happened when I asked Kaydee what the Spanish translation for something was. The moment she turned around and said “nariz,” I knew. I saw the Mohawk instead protruding from Kaydee’s head. I almost spoke. I was dangerously close. But I was petrified of rejection, and so decided to wait until my theory was fully developed.

It took a long time. All summer, in fact. But by the time sophomore year began, I was ready. It was the first day of school, and Kaydee was in my early bird class. I walked up to her. I cracked my knuckles. And then I said something.

“Kaydee,” I said. “Have I ever told you that you would look absolutely smashing with a purple Mohawk?”

She looked at me quizzically, like I had said something totally ridiculous. She also disagreed. But this time, I persevered instead of letting rejection stop me. I’m proud to say that since that fateful morning I have told Kaydee to get a purple Mohawk nearly every day using a different phrase, according to what she is doing/wearing/talking about at the time.

For example, once Kaydee happened to be wearing a pink shirt: “Oh, Kaydee. I love your shirt. You know what goes nice with pink? Purple. So you should get a purple Mohawk.”

Or, on one occasion, she was eating a McDonald’s hash brown. I commented on the commonly-known fact that the hash brown was the designated food of the rock stars, and that she should also adopt the hairstyle of the rock stars (obviously the purple Mohawk).

So far, she has disagreed on that daily basis. But I’m sure that with my unfaltering dedication, I will soon persuade Kaydee to get a purple Mohawk.

Mohawk image: http://media.photobucket.com/image/purple%20mohawk/chevnic/Glare_and_Purple_Hair.jpg

Ballerina Revival: Hot Topic shoppers exchange studded belts for frills

I was once strolling down the mall, looking for nothing in particular. After finishing the last of my pretzel bites, I proceeded to do some window-shopping. I passed a few stores without incident, but when I hit Hot Topic my stroll fizzled down to nothing. What I saw in the store window made me want to regurgitate my Blue Raspberry Icee all over the shiny tiled floor.

They were tutus. Tutus. Similar to what a seven-year-old girl missing two front teeth would wear for a Christmas dance recital choreographed to the musical stylings of Mozart and Beethoven.

I mean, I’ve seen some ridiculous trends in my day. Like multicolored clip-on hair extensions, so every girl can experience the pure exhilaration of having a strip of synthetic, hot pink hair clipped to their scalp (but only temporarily, of course).

But really, a tutu? I figured a majority of teenage females had experienced their share of forced ballet lessons, and had finally whined and moaned enough that their mother finally agreed to cancel their childhood ballet-prodigy careers and let them stay home and watch Cartoon Network on Tuesday nights (At least that’s what happened to me.) So wouldn’t it be expected that most teenagers would be sick of and/or are too cool for tutus?

Apparently not, because even as the thought crossed my mind that these tutus could never possibly sell and would end up shoved together on the rack at some second-rate Halloween store or, more preferably, resold as house-breaking tools for new puppies, I began to notice that some girls at the mall were actually clothed in these abominations.

Some of these tutus were rainbow-colored, some hot pink, others a simple pearly white. The girls also wore the tutus in different ways: redundantly over pants, combined with striped stockings, or bravely all by their lonesome. But the girls all had one thing in common: they looked like they just got back from a dress rehearsal of The Nutcracker.

Did they secretly yearn to become ballerinas? Perhaps they felt a deep regret over cancelling their ballet lessons and were now trying to reclaim a segment of their lost childhood by pulling a tutu over a pair of ridiculously tight pants like an afterthought. Maybe their repressed ballet-related urges had now found a channel through which to be expressed.

There was also a chance that some of the girls thought they were being stylish, but they were blatantly mistaken.

To make matters much worse, a majority of the tutu-clad teens were also sporting clip-on neon hair extensions. This immediately reminded me of something not typically associated with Hot Topic or the clothing purchased from there: Barbie dolls. In fact, if any of these tutu-wearers were asked anything about Barbie dolls or ballerinas, they would most likely not reply positively. But when compared side-by-side, the similarities are overwhelming: Barbie has colorful removable hair extensions and ballerinas wear tutus, and so do these stylishly-misled youths.

So I ask, what will be the next deviously-devised fashion trend sent up from the depths to pollute the style of our teenagers? Can it get any worse?

Time Travel: Possible?

It was sophomore year, American Literature class. Teacher: Patrick Billings. Unit: Poetry. It was then that I flipped to the page that held the photograph of a famous poet named Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I wasn’t expecting to see anything but a typically-dull textbook page, but what was staring back at me left me entirely speechless, thoughtfully assessing and reassessing. Finally, I spoke.

“Evelyn,” I said. “Look. He looks just like Mr. Rehfedlt.”

Evelyn, who sat beside me, hadn’t yet opened her textbook. While she did so, I once again analyzed the face of Mr. Longfellow. Their features were identical. Right down to the expression on his face- that was Rehfeldt. The only noticeable difference was Longfellow’s sideburns and hair that fell to his chin.

“Oh my god!” Evelyn exclaimed giddily. “You’re right! It looks exactly like him!”

I whipped out my cell phone and snapped a picture, confidence now brimming with her approval. I wasn’t simply imagining things.

I asked a myriad of other students- thirteen, to be exact- all of whom agreed with my proposal. And these were not half-hearted agreements- they were animated “Oh my god!”s accompanied with many “That’s so weird!”s.

So I finally got around to showing the photo to Mr. Rehfedlt, and asked him if he saw a resemblance. He replied on the negatory. I asked him if he was serious. After all, fourteen people- not including me- had decided that they were very similar in appearance. He restated his answer.

Dejected, I made my way elsewhere. On the way elsewhere, I spawned a theory.

Why would he say no? It was obvious that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Brian Rehfedlt looked eerily alike, so why would he so vehemently deny it? One reason came to mind. Rehfedlt didn’t just look like Longfellow; he was Longfellow.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, using his genius poetical abilities, had built a time machine sometime shortly after the death of his wife, Frances, in 1861. She died after her dress caught fire. Hopelessly forlorn, he found a lowlife bum to impersonate him for the rest of his life, so he wouldn’t be missed. As the story goes, Longfellow’s severe facial burns acquired from trying to save his wife prevented him from shaving, which is why he sported a large beard. However, the truth is that the bum had a huge beard, which obstructed enough of his face so he could pass as Longfellow. So after replacing himself, Longfellow stepped into his time machine and traveled to the year 2003, where he then cut his hair, shaved his sideburns, and became employed as a history teacher at Clark High School.

He chose to become a history teacher, it was apparent, so nobody would make a connection between the English-junkie Longfellow and this new history-buff Rehfeldt. He can only pass as a history buff because he was actually there.

What he didn’t count on was an attentive sophomore to stumble across an un-bearded, young photograph of him in her American Literature textbook. So, when faced directly with the evidence, he denied it.

When I asked to take his picture to accompany this article, he didn’t refuse. See, that would be too suspicious, like refusing to take a lie-detector test. So instead he made sure the angle of my photograph wasn’t similar enough to the picture to incriminate him. Whenever I got the almost-perfect angle, he would break out in laughter, ruining the picture.

Sneaky, but not sneaky enough. Soon enough I’ll catch you, Longfellow.

Fact: I'm Either Julia or Mariah

Once, quite early in my freshman year, I was in the hallway, weaving past a million other kids on the way to a class. A blonde-haired girl walking past caught my eye, gave me a smile, and waved to me. I had never spoken to her or even seen her before, so I found it to be tremendously confusing. Engulfed my tremendous confusion, I didn’t acknowledge her at all.

A few days later, my twin sister, Mariah, had a story to tell me. She said she had been in class having a conversation with some people and had mentioned that she had a twin offhandedly. One of the girls claimed to have seen me, explaining a time when she thought she had seen Mariah in the hallway, waved to her, and got only a strange expression in return. I was shocked.

Back in the good old days when my mother would get my sister and me routine to-the-chin haircuts and dress us in similar clothing, I could let it slip if I got mistaken as Mariah once in awhile. After all, I was a little kid, and most of those things look the same anyway. So if you called out “Mariah!” it’s quite likely that I would look in the direction of your voice, solely from habit.

But it doesn’t make sense anymore. Mariah is brunette- my hair is like a dusty corncob. Mariah’s eyes are hazelish green, my eyes are brownish brown. I’m about two and a half inches taller than her. When Mariah’s wearing one of her formfitting girl-shirts, I’ve probably thrown on my baggy black Weird Al Yankovic t-shirt. Even the less noticeable differences- Mariah’s freckles and rosy complexion in comparison to my flat, pale skin; her dainty, size seven feet and my size 8½ Vans– should be a tell-tale sign. It is completely baffling to me that somebody could mistake me, without the knowledge that Mariah even had a sister, much less a twin- for Mariah.

For a long while, I had a theory: perhaps it was their psyche. Perhaps being aware of the fact that two people were twins made them look exactly alike through the eyes of a person, and made it possible for the person mistake the twins for one another. The word “twin” brings the image forth of two things that are identical- carbon copies. I began to wonder: did simply knowing of our twin-ness cause people to identify our faces as the same face?

I really thought I had something going, but that girl in the hallway ruined it all for me. She, independent of the knowledge that Mariah and I were twins, picked me out of 2,700 faces to be Mariah. Now that my theory has been shattered, I am left only with something that makes no sense… could Mariah and I actually look alike?

The World Hates Me, and I Have Proof.

The other day, I decided to wear my favorite pair of jeans out to some place that is completely irrelevant. However, upon removing them from my overstuffed drawer designated for pants, I noticed that they boasted a not-so-unnoticeable hole in a quite noticeable place where a pair of pants simply cannot have a hole in order for them to still be wearable in public.

No worries, right? They’re just a pair of jeans, easily replaceable, right? WRONG.
This specific pair of jeans happened to have been passed down to me by my great, great, great, great- friend, Nicole. They didn’t fit her, so they became mine. I practically lived in those jeans. They became a part of me, a part of my soul. So, when they were still wearable, I decided to go to their store of origin, American Eagle Outfitters, to get myself a second pair just in case they didn’t last forever. So I walk into the store (wearing the jeans) and look around, trying to locate an identical pair. I could find none. Nearly panicking, I caught the attention of the nearest sales associate.

“Excuse me,” I said, “Do you know where I can find a pair of jeans like these?” I gestured to my pants, as if this employee had memorized exactly how each pair of pants the store sold looked on different people.

“Oh, what are they called?” the girl replied, because she obviously hadn’t memorized exactly how each pair of pants the store sold looked on different people.

I told her the name, which was “Stretch Skinny Flare.”

“I am so sorry,” she said with sympathy, “but American Eagle has discontinued production of that type of jeans.”

It was then I learned that the world hated me. And it wasn’t based solely on this event; this was simply the final straw that broke the camel’s back (Look at me, being a big shot. I used two idioms at the same time.) You see, throughout my life, whenever I truly adore some type of product, it is viciously removed from the market and from existence altogether.

Exhibit A: Hot and Spicy Chex Mix. From the tender age of eight, I had been addicted to the hot and spicy flavors of Hot and Spicy Chex Mix, and it had become a staple in my evening routine to have a bowl at around eight o’clock… until General Mills pulled the plug. However, they had the nerve to re-release the flavor, but it tasted completely different. Ironically, when I finally got used to the new flavor, they stopped selling it in stores. Now I can only find it in school vending machines, so I get my daily Chex Mix fix during lunch.

Exhibit B: Hearty Chicken Cup of Soup. I wouldn’t have survived the summer before my freshman year without this disgustingly unhealthy excuse for real food. I literally ate this daily, although I could feel my arteries clogging with every sodium saturated sip. I was in shock when this went out of production, going as far as to write an ode to its departure, but now that I’m looking back it may have been for the better.

Exhibit C: My poor jeans, of course.

I don’t know how I will go on knowing that the world hates me, but I think I’ll manage. Hopefully I’ll never like you.