When I was a freshmen in high-school I needed special permission from the vice-principal to move my locker, far away from my graduating class. I'm not sure what words were exchanged that frightful morning that ended in tears, but I do remember that it was Kelly who drove me to that embarrassing meeting with authority and my premature demise of popularity.

In the seventh grade she was my best friend who reported me to the school counselor for bulimia because I am quite sure she was secretly disgusted sitting next to me while I enjoyed my Polish liver pate spread on rye bread with an enormous dill pickle wrapped in aluminium. Nom. Nom. I ate lunch with the counselor for three months while segregated from my peers in Z Cavaricci jeans.  Kelly and I happily re-conciled months later and she even gave me an opportunity to meet all of her new friends! It would only cost me $5 per friend. My memories of what happened early on my freshmen year are a little hazy selective memory FTW but it ended up that I scored a locker in the basement of the high-school's industrial wing. The furthest most isolated wing of the massive school.

In that dark dungeon of lockers for misfits at the tender age of fourteen, snuggled in-between Reena Patel and Nikolai Petrov, and very close to Big John who required special elevator assistance, I found my tribe who taught me to appreciate people. Big John had taken my Algebra class twice before and knew all of the extra credit questions. Reena, who grew up with no television, recommended that I enroll in her art class so we could continue our book discussions. Nikolai introduced me to the Kosher dill pickle once you go Kosher Dill you never go back and convinced me to try out for the swim team.

I grew into my skin later that year and secretly thanked Kelly for the life lesson. Always serve your children liver pate for school lunches.

While she filled her high-school social calendar with equally-as-drop-dead-gorgeous-blonds whose main focus was the varsity football players, I forced myself to join the swim team and met uber competitive friends that taught me team work.  I ended up taking four years of art and befriended awkward twin sisters who got me to body surf at a Nirvana concert.  I immersed myself in people who just, oh gosh, I could learn from. Who were and were not like me. What Kelly forced me to learn, that one freshmen year in the dungeon of misfits lockers, was that beauty wasn't only skin deep.

I graduated high school being voted as "the person who would travel all over the world" and my surname in the yearbook index was a paragraph deep full of mis-matched activities ranging from the Drama Club to Varsity Swimming.  Today, I drive an entry level minivan surrounded by top-of-the-line Porsche SUVS in a place where people scratch their heads wondering why my husband mows his own grass. "Oh, yeah.  You never give him a break" one neurosurgeon neighbor said on a walk past our house with his triplets on perfect display.  I don't have a van that pulls up to my doorway full of cleaning ladies because I clean my own house.  And I hate HATE that people still judge me when I offer my hobby to a friend.  But through all of the remarks, smirks, and glances I find myself surrounded by people who are just outright awesome because they aren't judgmental.

Gah.  What am I trying to say here?  I guess I never told my mother how I spent most of my high-school freshmen year because at the time I was hurting so much that I was embarrassed.  But now I realize how much my freshmen year shaped me.  Which made me wonder tonight.  If my latest fashion post, made you think... awesome!  That was the point.  You don't have to have the same style as me or think the same way I do.  You don't have to strive for wardrobe perfection or have a million dollars.  The point of the post wasn't keeping up with the Jones or wearing high heels or spending more time in your closet than with your children.  People like Reema, Nikolai, and Big John in the basement of my high-school taught me that inner beauty shines and triumphs over all.  We all like to believe that and in the end it's so very true.

My point was/is that like the rest of the world we should take more pride in ourselves. Take time to care about ourselves.  If NaKhady in Senegal prepares dinner adorned in bright costume jewelry and if ninety-year-old Apolonia from Poland arrives in America wearing a fur coat, we in America can play dress up a little more.  Or shower.