Ah yes, bimbo days. I had ’em.
Froofy big hair, shiny fabrics, tight fit, high heels, makeup.
Sometimes I cannot believe the things I wore – wore because I thought they made me look sexy, which I understood to be the main purpose of clothes.
Here I am on my 30th birthday, wearing a dress that I bought in the juniors department just because I could:
Yes, that is a leopard print spandex-cotton blend. It shows as much thigh as my high school skirts.
Here I am in a gold foil dress for another company Christmas party … I never wore this dress, or the 30th birthday dress, again. Thank God.
And lest you think I was suffering from oppression because of these clothes, here is a happy Polaroid taken by my boyfriend:
Well, that’s just the point … nothing is more inflamed than an untamed Catholic girl from a small town. She goes to the big city (Seattle) and forgets everything she ever knew about good taste and modesty.
Oh, but wait.
There was that time when I was 18, working at Montgomery Ward’s in the Sandusky Mall, and a manager asked if I would help them sell car wax.
By lounging on a sports car.
In a bikini.
I told my friend Dan that I’d be “modeling” at the mall that day, not mentioning the bathing suit. So he came to see me, with his mother.
I heard him scream before I saw him.
I’m writing about my bimbo days to remind myself that:
1. My “sexy” clothing choices, though conventional, did give me some pleasure.
2. I have not always been fat and old.
3. When I look askance at the dreadful clothes that 20-something women wear today, I just should shut up.
Today’s penny is a 1989, the last year I bought a dress in the juniors department.