The Transmogrification of Slinky, or the genesis of the I-Am-Fat Voice

The Fabulous Miss C made me mull over something in one of her recent posts. And that's the fact that we never really get over ourselves. Not really.

We all have our inner image demons that we can't slay. That's why all those ridiculously beautiful supermodels say stupid things like "Yeah, I was such an ugly kid, and no one wanted to be my friend. I hated my lips", while tossing their perfectly highlighted manes and stretching their perfect lithe bodies while you resist the urge to strangle them with their tube tops. Because for them, they still see that funny-looking kid who got called Duckface looking back at them in the mirror.

Most of us, if not all, have gone through that excruciatingly painful phase during our teen years when we haven't quite figured ourselves out yet, but we haven't the self-awareness or the self-esteem to decide for ourselves who we are. Oftentimes, we seek the safest path, the path of least resistance. And thus are we led on the path to straight to geekdom. And while we inhabit that lonely world of self-doubt and dim self-hatred, we look at the popular girls, the golden girls, for whom somehow, inexplicably, a different background music is played while they move smoothly through Life. More guitar and drums. Less tuba. And it seems to be an almost insurmountable obstacle to move from Geek Central to the inner circle of Cool.

It didn't help that as a child of the 80's, the odds were probably stacked against you. Who the hell ever felt desirable in 80's female fashion? Witness: the need for ripped jeans, big hair, and at one truly ghastly period of time in my school, plaid lumberjack shirts. The Flashdance leggings and the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. And let's not forget the boots.

It was such a recipe for distaster. Hence, on separate occasions, the stretch jeans of an unfashionable brand where the rips weren't worn and ragged, but over-enthusiastically inflicted with a pair of dressmaking scissors, the lumberjack shirt in green and red (for the love of Christ) which was three sizes too big, and a very large, very baggy striped boatnecked T-shirt instead of the requisite sweatshirt (worn only after the Flashdance craze was over because I was fashion retarded), stirrup pants (which bagged at the knee) and Doc Marts. What made everything worse, of course, was the fact that you hadn't yet learned color theory. Which would explain the time that I wore a salmon-colored boatneck tee with spearmint-green culottes with scrunchy elastic at the waist. (I hang my head in shame).


"That's the last time I forget to wear pants when I leave the house"


These guys made the ripped jeans, big hair and boots look so damned good

Then sometimes your parents contribute to the image which will haunt you in years to come. Hence, my mother's contribution in the form of multiple pairs of striped bicycle tights and her decision to take me to the neighborhood barber shop where my hair was cropped off with scissors and razors to something tragically resembling a bowl cut, prompting strangers to comment how much her son resembled her. (The one and only time in history my hair could have been fashionable, it wasn't) The black suede ankle boots with gold grommets were also a nice touch, I felt.

Slinky = ubergeek.

Sooner or later, self-awareness and the realization that you look like a proper prat strikes and after much consternation and the belief that the entire world is laughing at you, and you try and change things.

Usually this coincides with the realization that boys aren't there to laugh at / avoid/ bully / poison.

For me, this took the form of The Bad Boy, who wore ripped jeans, a gold earring, had the classic centre parting, got in fights, did drugs, played the guitar and embodied rock and roll (naturally, I met him at church). It was while blushing madly in his rock god presence that it was slowly but surely brought to my attention that maybe polo shirts and bicycle tights wasn't an outfit which would bring a bo to his knees. And slowly dawned the conviction that there was no way in hell that The Bad Boy would ever look twice at me. (Particularly since Little Miss Thang with her long straight silky hair was wearing tight little black dresses, right little black tops and tight little skirts with anklebreaker black heels I think my bitch factor kicked in some time around then as well. No coincidence there).

And so began the first metamorphosis in Slinky. Out came the ripped jeans and the severely translucent white cap-sleeved crop top (I still cringe when I think about it). During the school holidays was born a determination to drag myself out of Loserdom. I remade myself completely. Too late for Rock God, but just in time for adolescence.



The transmogrification of Slinky. Blink and you'll miss it

But you never really forget. And, as Miss C said, no matter how many times we change, no matter how many forms we take, when we look in the mirror there is always the shadow of She Who Was looking back at us. What-If Boy once told me that he never thought that I went through a geek phase, and refused to believe that I had despite photographic evidence (god bless his heart). But I still see the skinny little could-be-a-boy-but-was-a-girl with ridiculously tragic bowl-cut hair who wore bicycle pants and spent ages looking in the mirror convinced that her zits were bigger than Mars. She still makes me think that no matter what I do, I will never be good enough, beautiful enough, smart enough, capable enough, fashionable enough. And no matter how much you change and how much you are loved, there is a voice which says "what does anyone see in you?" And you worry that one day, the people you love will see through your costume changes and echo that thought. And then you're screwed.