give me time to realize my crime

i can still remember sitting cross-legged on my mother's bed at four years old, watching her get dressed. it was 1992, and invitations to ritzy soirees weren't exactly flooding our staten island mailbox, but her stirrup leggings and acid wash trenchcoats have remained lodged in my memory the way i imagine evening gowns and ornate atomizers do for daughters of different tax brackets. evidence of my mother's past life sat in golden frames on top of the piano and between pages of forgotten photo albums - lacy white gloves and perfectly coiffed hair and from an even earlier era, a bared midriff and printed two-piece playsuit - but she was the sort of woman who'd wholeheartedly thrown seemingly every bit of her being into motherhood, trading high heels for trainers if it meant that i could have the finest dress shoes on the block.

i was an incredibly shy child, crumbling into a teary mess when prompted to shake a stranger's hand and clinging desperately to my mother at nearly every social function, but at home, i was all too aware of my princess status and acted accordingly, skipping over starry-eyed admiration of my mother's fashion sense and offering scathing fashion commentary instead. to her credit, she took my critiques in stride, laughing it off when i told her in no uncertain terms that shoulder pads made her look like a quarterback and casually dismissing my unsolicited advice. if i wasn't buying into her aesthetic, then her aloof response to my commentary would influence me in any case - by the age of seven, i would already have made a habit of ignoring her fashion advice, as well.

for the record, i still hate shoulder pads.