funky bunny

I had a flourescent orange dress. It hung close to my body, and called a lot of attention to it like cones on the street around construction areas. It clashed in just the right way with my moonboots - big, black Marilyn Manson-esque machines that crawled up to my knees in a space-age leathered contraption. My pale white skin was also emphasized in a particularly uncomplimentary way.

A friend and I went to Switzerland and I found myself a pair of low-riding sailor pants. I wore them everyday for the next eight months with any new, slightly off combination I could find from one of the local second-hand stores. I madly combed the city for cowboy boots.

But then things slowly began to change. It started with a new coat. It was grey, hooded, and long. I had to admit it looked cute and school-girlish compared to my bulky, wild hippie machine from the previous year. Plain black buttons replaced the strange little hooks. It came in at the waist, creating a sleeker look. A more respectable one.

And then more changes came. And more.

Americans wear white socks. If you're ever in Europe and doubting if someone is American from a distance, just look at the socks. I suppose as I traded in my white athletic tube socks for the more refined European black knee-highs, I also gave up a part of myself that felt it needed to stick out in a crowd. For four years, I had always looked for the eccentric. And slowly, I found myself searching out the simple.

Once I realized what sort of fashion change I was making, I dove in at once. My wardrobe was in a sort of schizophrenic state for about a year as the changes began taking place: sleek, gray pants, button-down fitted collared shirts, strappy sandals, classic v-neck sweaters.

Eventually, I thought I had gathered a wardrobe more in synch with my Parisian self. One that went more with my new state of mind: upon arriving in France I had been a 19-year-old fan of Parliament that had spent all summer cocktail waitressing in the sun. After two years, I felt more adult, more cosmopolitan, more calm.

And one day, I decided to clear out the wardrobe, doing away with anything that had not been worn in the last six months. It was strange, almost a cleansing. I felt as if I was packing away my former self, not so much throwing it away as recognizing that I had changed. I know superficial appearances are only just that: superficial. But there had been memories tied up to most of those clothes that I had long since decided were now too outrageous, or simply too tacky, for me to wear around town.

I tossed the orange dress, the horrific jacket, the moonboots. I only kept one thing, one very special pair of bellbottoms that I wore to the Lenny Kravitz concert in 1998 when I was 18. They have studs running all up and down the legs on both sides, studs that yell out "I am a funk machine, babycakes! You better watch out for this funky bunny!" I just couldn't part with it.

I sometimes wonder who has some of my t-shirts.

I had one that was particularly form-fitting that I had worn to work one day. My friend and coworker Tim stopped by with his two year old daughter. The two of them came into the back office as I was talking to my bosses and we got to chatting. As he was holding her in his right arm, she leaned over and grabbed my boob and said, "What that?" The four of us squeemishly tried to pretend the scene before us wasn't unravelling as it so obviously was, but little Zoe only became more insistent. She grabbed my left breast to the point of pain and said, "What IS that?" as I reeled back in pain. Tim blushed and said, "Apparently this is the age where toddlers are a little more interested in the...um...the female bosom." Even my ears turned red and my boss made some sort of crack.

Another shirt said along the front "If you can't take a joke..." and nothing more. Curious customers would always ask me what the rest of it was. There was nothing on the backside, and I would often overhear people casually discussing what they thought it meant. The problem was that the rest of the joke was on the inside of the shirt, and I would have to pull up the bottom part to reveal the punchline: "...FUCK YOU!" It wasn't really funny, and I knew that. But it was a comfortable t-shirt - long and stretchy and just the right size without being bulky and unattractive. With some customers - those that were my age and were just in the restaurant to have a beer or some nachos - I would show them the rest of it if asked. They would always say something like, "Duuuudde. Can I just ask you something?" After approval, the elected speaker would continue, "Yeah...well, dude, we were just wondering. Like, your shirt. What's the joke?" But it was always problematic when more respectable clients would ask me about it. I would lie and say, "I don't know. It's not my shirt. I just borrowed it really quickly." But I'm a horrible liar and would get all flustered and would end up spilling the water or something. Without fail.

One of my favorite shirts came straight out of the early 80's. It sported an Apple logo, but old-school style in a rainbow that crossed from my right shoulder down to the left hip across my entire front. The little apple sign that is still used was at the end of the rainbow, but it was just cut out of the greater rainbow image. It was a beautiful shirt. I decided to wear it to my first day of work at a bar that had live jazz on the outside terrace. Before going into work in the afternoon, I spent the morning moving some of my stuff into a storage space outside of town. Driving into work, I noticed a huge grease mark that covered most of my right breast that I must have gotten while unloading my truck's trunk. Horrified, I called into work and said I was on my way, but that I needed to pick up a t-shirt because I had gotten a stain on my clothes. Crawling into Capitola, where I worked, traffic was in a jam and I couldn't find a place to park. By the time I got settled, I was already 10 minutes late to my first day - the 4th of July. It was supposedly the restaurant's busiest day of the year because it was the only restaurant at the end of the pier - ideal for watching fireworks. I hurriedly popped into the first shop I could find selling t-shirts, and I bought a large strappy tank top without even trying it on. I ran down to the pier, switched my shirts, and checked myself out in the mirror. I was a cleavage machine, and the minsicule little tank left little room for the imagination. I was mortiifed, but between a clementine-sized grease spot and excessive cleavage, I decided to go with the cleave. Even worse, when I waited tables at that restaurant, I was forced to do a lot of bending down in order to hear the customers because the music was so loud. But hey, I made over $200 in tips that day.

Clothes have stories, too, you see. And to throw them all away was in its own little way heartbreaking.

I just found my yellow studded bellbottoms. The special ones I saved just because I couldn't part. I put them on, and miraculously still fit in the pants I bought when I was 18. That's good news. But even better news is that I looked at myself in the mirror, recognized a part of myself from my past, and smiled.

These pants aren't me anymore. But it was fun to feel my old self, to remember where I was just a few years back, and to think about how many changes I have made since. I'm still the same old funky bunny. I've just grown up a little bit. But only a little.