When I was a kid, a little girl, I was surrounded by 9 boys and another girl. My siblings. There are so many things about being raised in a family full of boys that, I believe, crafted the way I think, feel, see the world,
You see, I prefer to wear jeans and t-shirts, anything boy-like, which frankly, I believe stems from diving into a pile of clothing laid out in an unorganized way on the floor. The California cool, laid-back pile of garb was an offer, a gift, or (what my mind didn’t consider until years later), most likely charity from an aunt who may have assumed my parents needed help in outfitting us kids.
Interestingly, and another thing I didn’t consider back in the ’70s, was that the casual wear was made to fit the boys, not us (two) girls. And, I’m guessing here, but I don’t think my sister was interested.
I sure didn’t care that they didn’t fit correctly.
I was in love.
I was only 10 or so, and anything new, and wearable worked for me, regardless of who those pants and shirts were meant for. Sign me up. I wanted a piece of the action. I had to have at least one pair of those Levi’s and one Hanes crew-neck. So, I saw the pile of blue and white as a free-for-all,
and in I dove.
Somewhere, there is a picture of me, sitting on a long metal bench, squeezed in with three of my brothers, our hair long, blond, and straight. So hippie-looking. Especially with the bell-bottom jeans and the plain ‘ol white t-shirts.
I’ve never given up on that style
and you can only imagine my joy when the world caught up with my thinking (and better yet, added stretch! to the garment) and began buying piles of jeans to wear whenever, wherever, however.
All. The. Time.