My eyes glaze over as I watch the girl begrudgingly shrug off the sleeves of her faux fur coat and wrap it around her waist, creating a fluffy mushroom-like plumage around her midsection; unevenly cascading over her bottom and revealing expressive, zig zag leggings that her mother undoubtedly made her put on this morning because, “You never wear these, I thought you liked them;” and she decidedly did not bother to argue the point because at least today is Saturday and no one from school will see her.
And it’s not like the leggings themselves are ugly or even unfashionable. It’s more that they are just too much. They’re too pink and orange and not enough purple to downplay the massive amounts of pink and orange. And the only shirt she can bare to wear with them is this plain purple top with a single white flower in the center of her chest. She tugs uncomfortably at the ends of her sleeves, willing the fabric to stretch just a little bit further to reach her wrists. She feels the seams along her shoulders protest and she gives up with a sigh. “Megan,” the barista calls, surveying the shop. She hops forward to collect her beverage.
She turns, briefly uncertain of what to do with herself before following her mother to the island where the napkins and creamer are kept, and pretends to appear disinterested as she takes a moment to admire the only half-way redeemable part of her outfit: brown, soft fabric, lace-up, faux fur-lined, knee-high boots, as seen on Good Luck Charlie. Beautiful boots that her Aunt Joan gave her for Christmas and she unwrapped with unparalleled glee as her grandmother held her tongue about how young ladies have no business wearing hooker shoes.