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"Dress Me, I'm Your Mannequin"
“Ok class,” Señorita Lopez shouted to get our attention. “A central theme must be developed, keeping in mind all of the grammar you have learned thus far.”
Looking slyly at her attire, she admires her sense of style, what with her silky blouses (that she refuses to wear skin tight) and her everyday plain black shoes with a two-inch heel. The shiny metal in her hair reflects the light from within the classroom. I’ve never seen her wear any other headband, just that one.
“This fashion show is crucial to your grade. If you do not follow directions, then you will lose points,” she said. “Your props and attire must coordinate with the topic you are presenting. You wouldn’t wear a snow suit if your topic is about summer now would you?”
What about the concept of Christmas in July? Besides, runway models wear almost anything no matter what time of the year it is. Victoria’s Secret is good at that. Strutting around in just a bra and underwear anytime of the year is their motto.
I quickly discovered that the nine-dollar flats in my closet along with the faded zebra print skirt would not suffice if I wanted to impersonate one of the Kardashians. Mall time was much needed.
Who knew that clothing and adjective agreement were important all for a matter of 10 minutes.
A day at the mall was like a day at the beach. I felt my free time needed to be well spent, and so did my money. All of the research about fashion and media were giving me a headache. I had to escape and the six-inch clutch in my car and its gas peddle were the only ones who could get me there.
“Hello there,” an employee spoke as she tended to the dressing rooms. Her green nametag was peeling and two of the letters were missing leaving ‘Sh nd a’ as her name.
“Hi, umm can I have a dressing room?” A woman spoke. She could not have been any more than 25 years old. Her skin was a pasty white and her features looked so innocent. Her hair looked like it had been through a windstorm, but no one else seemed to notice.
“You sure may,” the employee responded. “Room 10 is open. Just close the door when you’re done.”
“Room 10, you said?” Asked the woman.
“Yes, room 10.”
The woman bit her lip and faltered as she began to walk away, “wait, I’m confused. Is that the door on the right?”
A little bewildered, the employee retorted, “All of the doors are on the right.”
The woman scratched her scalp as dandruff snowed down her shoulder. “Do the doors start with 10 or end with 10?”
“Ten is all the way in the back.”
Still looking confused the woman was about to speak but the employee spoke first.
“It’s the second number 5!” The employee snarled.
“Ohhh, ok, thanks!”
My conquest of the junior department was nothing short of heavy sorting and forceful digging. I managed to find a size 11 to fit every dimension of my gluteus maximus, although it took 45 minutes of rummaging through every possible brand. Men need to stop making jeans, no pun intended.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” A mother asked her young daughter as they stopped to buy some new clothes for an event that evening. She was standing an arms length distance from where my feet touched the freshly polished floor of the downtown mall.
“Have you no respect for yourself? You disgust me,” she spoke as her black lace clinged to her chest like that of a baby to a mother’s bosom.
“Do not speak to me if you insist on wearing horrid fabric that yet does nothing for your figure but cover you in shroud.”
A man came on the loud speaker. Adidas high-top kicks were on sale for just $39.99 and they only had 4 pairs left. If I had done anything right in this world it would have been to wail them at that mother for emotional abuse.
A song by Lady Gaga played from the stereo system sitting on a shelf, as I stood in silence with my reflection starring back at me from a 3 by 8 mirror.
“I am, I’m too fabulous
I’m so fierce that it’s so nuts.
I live to be model thin
Dress me, I’m your mannequin.
I need, some new stilettos
Can’t walk, down the street in those
You are, who you wear it’s true
A girl’s just as hot
As the shoes she choose.”
I loathed the caddy girls and their nonchalant attitudes and their Hollister brand clothing. Their tops flashed a slit of stomach as their hips swiveled back and forth as they pranced down the hall so dramatically. Hipbones could be seen protruding like a model resorting to anorexia for the first time.
The one on the left I resented the most. Her four inch heels smacked off of the floor as she passed by me on her way to class with an ‘I’m better than you’ look on her face. If only she felt the gum that Brad put in her hair during Biology.
Our media controversy served no purpose nonetheless. I couldn’t write about hyper skinny models and medias portrayal of turning the most appropriate weight girl into a holocaust victim. Some magazines are good at that. Eat this food, drink this drink and you will lose weight. I’ve never noticed.
‘The media are essential components of our lives’ is what one of Hanson’s Seven Truths states, socially of course. Magazines, for one, are a girl’s best friend, aren’t they? They provide us with who is important, what we need to spend our money on, and gossip about. Besides, you can’t get advertisements from a book.
I kept turning the pages. It was useless. Everything I couldn’t manage to get my hands on was eating at me. I wanted the jimmy chews and the Mark Jacobs handbag. Who was I kidding?
“That was so cheesy.” Señorita Lopez chuckled practically rolling around on the floor. “I loved it, I really did. It was amusing. It would have been even better with some black wigs…just saying.”
Our fashion show was a success. Some added humor, emphasis on attitude, and a never-ending line of accessories got the job done. The $20 boots on my feet were nothing more than mediocre. Just Black. They suited my attire perfectly. Anything more extravagant would have burned a hole in my pocket.
No shoes were thrown, no gum was placed in anyone’s hair, and no jimmy chews were worn, but I quickly learned that the world wouldn’t stop there.