MY Style
Going through awkward adolescence, navigating self-discovery, and figuring out who we are, wasn't all that unique. But I think we can agree that those brief junior high years left a lasting impression on our personal looks and styles as we—ahem—aged, I mean matured, and honed our individual styles.
It's no different for those going through it now. I hear Cottagecore is big, and then there's the lesser-known Gremlincore. In short, Cottagecore is an aesthetic and design style that encourages adopting a simpler and more bucolic lifestyle. Its design characteristics include vintage and handcrafted items such as clothing, candles, furniture, and needlework. Stylistically, Gremlincore is characterized by earth tones in darker shades and somewhat worn-looking or second-hand clothing. It can be likened to aesthetics driven by nature and fantasy, such as Fairycore.
But don't worry, the goths, the jocks, and the nerds still walk among us. Back in my day, we had the preppies, the gangs, the nerds, and the awkward ones. Though technically, "awkward" is not a subcategory; it's more like a solo debut, in my case. It was the '90s when gangster rap was red-hot, and "Clueless" was considered the best movie of all time—duh! But nothing was more dangerous than an awkward girl trying to fit in with the best of them.
The lot of us hung out, but sometimes I wondered if they actually liked me or if it was out of convenience because, in numbers, we looked less "other." The logic was that we were less likely to get picked on if there were more of us. I'm not sure how I managed to make friends during my last year of middle school, but I did find a group of girls who, like me, didn't quite fit in. None of us were wealthy or had the latest fashion, and we were all trying to discover our own sense of style as well as our identities. I wondered if "tomboy" was the right term for us, or if there was a male equivalent, perhaps something like "metrosexual."
My mood was always swinging for the fences; one day, I was all in black, thinking I was goth; the next day, I used half a bottle of Aqua Net to get a rise out of my bangs to look more like the Chicano girls. But mostly, I wore homely clothes that I found lying around in my room and put them on right before leaving the house.
"This makes your arms look fat—No!" said my mom.
"How about this one?" I said.
"No, too short," said my mom.
"Ugh, I'll never find a dress for the graduation dance," I said.
"Don't worry, we'll find something to fit you, but we have to do it quickly because I have to get back to work," said my mom.
"Okay," I said.
Just as I was about to give up, there, in the corner, I saw the one. It was off-white and hung just so, calling for me. It was slightly white, perfectly laced with a slip top and bottom. It had trimmed around the armholes, revealing just enough and covering just enough to please both my mom and me. When I tried it on, it fit like a glove. I thought to myself, this will be the "fuck off" to puberty, "screw you" to all the mean girls, and "fuck you" to all the boys who never had a crush on me. This was me making a statement. I thought to myself, I'll prove to them all that I made it out of middle school.
On the day of the dance, the group of us took professionally shot photographs. There are three young girls and me kneeling on the floor. I can't remember whose bright idea it was to pose this way, but there I am. Besides the strange choice of pose, my hair had a life of its own. Once, a boy laughed and remarked that it looked like Frankenstein's wife. It wasn't far from the truth. Just another mix-match look that I was trying out. What can I say, it was a special occasion, and the hairstyle felt right. I wanted to make an entrance, and it was what I was looking for.
That night, we mostly stuck with one another, chatting with a group of girls, all of us awkwardly waiting, pining for the boys to ask us to dance. No boys asked me to dance that day, but I still had fun. We danced our hearts out, goofed around with our friends, and I got the nerve to ask the DJ to play a song.
"Weak" by SWV, a classic, the lyrics are simple and get straight to the point—perfect for a tween confessing her love for a boy. I can hear it now; it went something like this:
I get so weak in the knees
I can hardly speak (I do)
I lose all control (control)
And something takes over me (takes over me)
In a daze, your love's so amazing (amaze)
It's not a phase; I want you to stay with me (stay with me)
By my side, I swallow my pride (my pride)
Your love is so sweet
It knocks me right off of my feet
Can't explain why your love, it makes me weak
The DJ obliged, and so did the boy who danced with my friend, much to our excitement. This happened to be the very last song, and though I didn't have a boy to dance with, it felt like a perfect end to a perfectly awkward night—me, dancing creepily by myself, almost too close to my friend, watching them dance. Sucking up all their joy as if I were an old man sucking all the life out of a baby's head.
