One of my favorite things to do when I'm home in Singapore is to look through all the old family photos. The way I phrased that, you probably thought I meant I looked at them in albums, right? But no: my mother was apparently such a prolific photographer through the entire 1980s that only a very small percentage of our family photos actually fit into photo albums. Sure, there are maybe a dozen neatly-organized books that I browse through as a matter of principle whenever I'm home, but where I really hit the mother lode is in this large Korean chest my parents have in their living room.
In this large Korean chest, there are bags and bags and bags of old photographs, just bundled in there all loose and stuff, and they're not organized by time period or anything---or maybe they were at one point, but I've rifled through them so many times that they certainly aren't anymore---which means that anyone who sits down and looks at them is in for a fairly disjointed narrative.
Honestly, it's enough to give a girl an identity crisis: there you are in photo after photo, and it's 1982 and you're all dimpled and be-diapered and awww, how cute, and then WHOA, HOLD THE PHONE, the next thing you know it's 1998 and you're wearing a glittery bindhi like you think you're Gwen Stefani, and you've stuck a pair of chopsticks in your peroxide-blonde hair and wow, eighteen-year-old self, who pissed in your fat-free Special K with 1% milk? Who stole your Matchbox 20 cassette tape? What happened to that cute little baby from three seconds ago? I just saw her, I swear!
(I bet this is how parents of teenagers feel all the time, right?)
So anyway, the last time I was home in May, I spent an entire two afternoons sitting cross-legged in front of the enormous Korean chest, pawing my way through bag after bag of photographs, and by the end of the second afternoon, I had reached a highly scientific conclusion. Granted, my butt was hurting from sitting on the hardwood floor for so long, and my knees were a little stiff from being cross-legged all that time, but I had reached a highly scientific conclusion nonetheless, and the highly scientific conclusion was this: my god, I had made some pretty bad clothing decisions in my time.
Except you know what they say about clouds and silver linings, right? Well, in case you don't, they say this: if you happen to stumble upon a collection of particularly hideous pictures of yourself making continuously laughable fashion choices, it is really only fair to pocket those pictures of yourself, force your boyfriend to scan them, and share the evidence with the Internet on a slow Tuesday morning. (No, really! I think it's an old Bulgarian proverb or something. Maybe Latvian)
And so in the spirit of sharing and catharsis and oh why the hell not, I present to you the first of what I hope will be a very long series of Bad Decision Tuesdays, in which we examine, collectively, the fashion faux pas of my youth. And then laugh about them together cruelly, while I secretly die of shame inside.
Well, well, well! Speak of the devil! What have we here? Why, I believe it's the inaugural Bad Decision Tuesday---the eponymous bad decision being that too-short dress with those too-pale tights (to say nothing, of course, of my ill-advised seating position, which has resulted in a very unfortunate display of approximately 80% too much thigh.) Please take a moment to marvel at my beautiful visage, while I gaze beatifically at the camera! Why hello, mother, I seem to be cooing sweetly, and a happy Christmas to you too! Of course you may take my photograph with your wondrous piece of machinery! I can certainly see why you'd want to capture THIS delightful period of my life on film!