Most of that urge, I’m sure, was hardwired into me by the annual back-to-school pilgrimages of my childhood. Every August without fail, my mother would take me to the biggest mall in town to pick out a range of new school outfits—just as mothers had been doing for generations, ever since Macy’s in New York City launched its first back-to-school sale in 1888, and probably before that.
Our annual trip was fraught with special meaning. It often involved lunch in the mezzanine restaurant at Simpson’s or a haircut at a real salon. For a 10-year-old, life couldn’t get much more glamorous.
To this day, I can vividly remember some of the ensembles we chose. Unfortunately, since it was the 1970s, most of the clothes came in combinations of lurid shades, unflattering styles and scary synthetic fabrics. Lavender polyester A-line skirts, anyone?
On a slightly less embarrassing fashion note, I also clearly recall my mother taking me to a kilt shop when I was about 15. She deemed I’d attained my final height, and thus an investment in a tartan skirt wouldn’t be wasted. Just like adolescent boys in ancient Rome, who gave up their boyhood toga (toga praetexta) for the plain white toga of an adult man (the wonderfully named toga virilis), I was about to undergo a rite of passage. I wasn’t entirely sure I needed a kilt, but my mother would brook no argument.
So off we went, and I was duly fitted with a classic grey tartan bisected by lines of red, black, and white. I have no idea which clan’s tartan it was. Perhaps it was a pattern manufactured solely for North American markets. Whatever it was, I loved it. I kept it for years after it no longer fit. (I didn’t grow much taller after I turned 15, but I unfortunately grew wider.) I can still remember how it felt, how it smelled, even how it looked on the hanger. I remember how grateful I felt to my mom for talking me into it.
These days, the closest I get to a classroom is listening to the kids in the schoolyard near my house squeal at recess. And since I work from home, I really don’t need anything new—neither my husband nor my cats will turn up their noses at last year’s (or last decade’s) sweatshirts and jeans. Yet, even though it’s a sweltering summer day as I write this column, I’m already yearning to run my fingers over this year’s blazers and turtlenecks. However, I’m determined to resist. After all, 2007’s “must have” item might look almost as silly as my lavender polyester A-line skirt in a few years.
