June 23: Label Whore!

I am a label whore. I love anything that screams “THIS IS A LOUIS VUITTON HANDBAG” or “YES, THESE ARE GUCCI SNEAKERS!” About a year ago, I read an article in one of those glossy mags that are chock full of advertisements for items that are stamped with every logo imaginable. The author of the article shook the preverbal “no-no” finger at wearing or carrying any item that displayed the companies name or logo. Basically, he/she stated that only rap stars wear anything that turns them into a walking build board for a brand, and that he/she thought was tres tacky.

After reading the article I began to reflect when my label obsession began. It started way back in the day, when I was nine and in the forth grade. Jordash jeans were the “it” jean and I wanted a pair more than I wanted a Barbie dream house. But there was one obstacle, my weight. See I was not the slimmest child, but I was not fat either. I was, well normal. However, my mother saw different.

The first time I could remember my weight became an issue I was in the third grade. I began to mature faster than the other girls. My white, starch-stiff, button down peter-pan, button down shirt pulled creating the dreaded “gapoisis.” My burgundy, navy, and gold plaid jumper was snug across my once non-existence hips. My gym shorts became daisy dukes with a permanent wedgie that put a damper on doing my jumping jacks.

When I came home with a note from the Sister Superior about my inappropriate fitting uniform, my mother hit the roof. She narrowed her eyes and glared at me. “Put your arms up,” she growled while grabbing my arms and jutting then in the air for me. She slowly circled me while mumbling to herself. Final she stopped in front of me, folder her arms and announced, “You are going on a diet!” “Ok,” I sheepishly replied while praying that I could put my arms down soon, because they were staring to cramp. “I know just the one!” my mother announced while opening the fridge door and pulling out a carton of eggs “You my daughter are going on the egg diet!”

Now this did not sound too bad; I liked eggs especially with Velveeta. But, I did not know that for the next 14 days that is all I would eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I ate them prepared every way; soft boiled, hard boiled, poached, fried (NOTE: In Pam of coarse), and scrambled. By day two, I was miserable, especially during lunch time. “Ill! That smells” the other girls would say when I took the lid off my reused margarine tub. “Why are you eating that?” one girl asked “Are you poor or something?” another said. I would only reply, “Eggs are good for you!”

By the end of the 14 days, I lost 8 lbs. My mother was thrilled, as she beamed at the scale with pure joy. However, as the weeks went on and I resumed my normal eating habits of an eight year old all the weight came back on and then some. And once again, I came home with a note stating the obvious; my uniform did not fit. But being a woman that sticks to her convictions, my mother flat out refused to buy me a new uniform. So everyday for the last three weeks of school I would place the pink colored paper that announced my inappropriance on the counter and she would crumble it up and toss it in the trash.

That summer we moved. While my mother was moving, I was sent off to summer camp for a month. The last thing my mother said to me was, “Do not eat too much!” A month later I was an inch taller and 12lbs lighter. Because we moved, I wasn’t attending private school. My mom was elated to buy me new school clothes for public school. She kept handing me heaps of clothes to try on and said things like, “Look how thin you look in that dress,” and “You look so tiny in that pant suit!”

I was very excited for my first day. I put on my new teal polyester dress with a pleated skirt and a white polk-a-dotted vest. As I smoothed the skirt over my legs I noticed that the pleats stuck out just a tiny bit. It did not bother me, but I knew that my mother would hit the roof. So, when she called me to leave for school, I cleverly covered the front of my dress with my new Charlie Angles lunch box.

After the first three months of school, my waist line began to expand. All my new clothes barely fit. I concealed this by wearing long sweaters to hide the fact that I could not button my pants anymore. By mid-November, I was wearing the same outfit over and over again; midnight blue velvet sweatpants, an oversized, cream fisherman’s sweater, and my lavender legwarmers with the silver threads running through them. The other kids began to call me “Crusty Carrie” because of my outfit. But, what they did not know is that I braved the creepy basement to wash my clothes everyday.

Now, you are probably wondering where my mother was during all this. Well, she was in love with a new boyfriend. She barely noticed my clothing and I was so grateful. In addition, I would leave the house as early as possible, so she would not see my outfit. When she questioned why I was leaving so early, I told her I was helping out with the classroom animals. However, I would sit on the frozen plastic seat of the swing set on the playground until the doors of school opened.

On Christmas morning, I awoke as the sun rose. I raced to the tree and spied all my gifts. I was so excited because I had a gut feeling that one of my present was a pair of Jordash jeans, because that is all I asked for. When my mother finally rolled out of bed around 10am I thought I was going to pop. After she got her coffee, I was allowed to finally tare into my gifts. I got a Rick Springfield record, a Strawberry Shortcake doll, new robe, and a new pair of dark blue Jordash jeans with the bright white stitching. I was so excited, that I ran to my room to put them on. I put both feet in and pulled up, but they stopped at my hips. I tried to wiggle them on by holding on to the belt loops and swinging my hips from left to right while jumping up and down. I lay on my bed and tugged, but they would not budge.

“Let me see how they look,” my mother yelled from the living room. I took them off, tears streaming down my face, and I slowly made my way to the living room. “What’s wrong, I though you wanted them!” my mother said through gritted teeth when she saw my face. “I love them, but they do not fit” I replied while hugging them close to my cheek. “What do you mean they do not fit; give them to me!” she said with her hand opening and closing like a claw. I placed my beloved jeans in her hand and she began to examine the tag. “They are a size 8, you wear an 8. Did you gain weight again?!” I just stood there with my head hung low and mumbled, “I do not think so,” knowing that I had. “Well let’s see,” she said while making her way down the hallway to the bathroom to get the scale.

She placed the scale at my feet and, pointed to it, and ordered me to get on it. My whimpers turned into full blown sobs, but she persisted. Slowly I placed my feet on the scale. “Oh my God!” she yelled “How the hell did you gain this much weight?” Now I was in full on hysteria mode; shoulders moving up and down and nothing but little whimpers coming out of my mouth flowed by sucking in air. “Well, those will have to go back and you will not get another pair until you drop some pounds!” she said in between sips of her coffee.

For the rest of the day I watched everyone enjoying the multi-course feast that my Aunt prepared, while I nibbled on lettuce, turkey (NOTE: White meat only; no gravy), and carrots. The rest of vacation I tried to drop my weight by walking around the block 10 times everyday, and by the end of the break I lost 3 pounds.

The Saturday before returning to school, my mother took me to return my jeans. As we walked through the mall I held the bag containing my jeans tight to me, ad wished I was thin enough to fit into my jeans. As we entered the kids section, I spied the Jordash section. I slowly walked over and ran my hand over their soft cloth. I began to flip through them and noticed that they made bigger sizes. I quickly grabbed a 10 and ran to my mother, “Look they make a 10, can I try it on?” “Oh no, you will not get them until you lose weight!” was her reply.

I was crushed. I wanted those Jordash jeans more than anything in my whole 9 years. I began to make my way back to the rack, when I heard my mother calling me. I thought she had had a change of heart. A smile spread across my face, and I ran to her with the jeans in my hands. “Look you need new jeans for school…” I could not believe my ears she was going to let me get them. “So, I want you to try on these!” and with that she handed me a pair of Cloud jeans. Who ever heard of Cloud jeans!

I took them and sulked my way to the fitting room. I was praying that they would not fit, but they did. On the way home I just stared out the car window thinking, how in the world did I wind up with Cloud jeans that fit and not Jordash jeans.

I dreaded going back to school because I would not have a cool pair of Jordash jeans but lame Cloud jeans. While walking to school, I made a promise to myself that when I had the money, I would buy anything with a label despite my size that I wanted. Almost 30 years later I have kept that promise, and that is why I am a label whore!