The ICan'tBelieveYouWoreThosePants Award: The worst fashion faux pas evah! And YOU wore it! Tell us. Extra points for pictures of you with bad 80s hair and a string tie.
------------------------------

how bout my fourth grade picture day outfit? imagine it: 1986. i was 9 (born late, so started school late). when everyone else was rocking banana clips, tight rolled jeans, jelly bracelets, and chic jeans, i was in another dimension altogether.

no side ponytail for me. no ocean pacific clothes or unicorn trapper-keepers. nope. on picture day i came dressed to the nines in my favorite outfit.

a long sleeved, ruffled cuff white shirt with a wide tie-like collar that flapped in ruffly waves over my sweater vest. yep. sweater vest. it was turquoise with stacked yellow, magenta, and purple lightening bolts streaking diagonally across the front. paired with this i wore lavendar slacks. not heavy polyester slacks that are around these days, but the lightweight, square-pocketed front with a drawstring closure type that i seemed to love in 1986.

the shoes were the best. how in the world i convinced my mother to let me out of the house in these i'll never know, but i was wearing cream-colored low-heeled pumps. yep. cream pumps. did i mention i was nine?

i remember being so careful in getting dressed to make sure my ruffly tie/collar thing hung just perfectly. i had long hair and decided to slick it back into a bun so as not to disturb the ruffly goodness at my neck. i made my mother iron those lavendar slacks twice before i could wear them. the cream pumps had little dark smudge scuffs on the upper sides, so i cleaned them really well with a wet washcloth before leaving for the bus stop.

i was soooo proud of that outfit. it would be another year before my older sister and i discovered the comfortable yet rugged durability of denim, the wonderful snug fit of a wrist full of black jelly bracelets, or the bright artificial glory of manic panic. by thirteen i was sporting copper doc martens and a subscription to thrasher, sneaking out to hang out with boys who worshipped fugazi and black flag and henry rollins. by sixteen i was writing tragic poetry and railing against middle class angst.

but, at nine, i gingerly smoothed the wrinkles from my ruffled shirt, eased the turquoise sweater vest over it, careful to fluff my ruffles whenever they drooped. at nine i scrubbed at scuffed cream pumps with the intensity of five-star general. at nine i knew no better and alex p. keaton was hot and i rocked the lavendar slacks.