When I was a teenager in the 60s, I’d take my hard-earned babysitting money and ride a Saturday bus to the nearest town that had more stores than my town had. It was New Westminster, B.C., and I was in search of bargain fabric because I loved clothes.
At Eaton's in New West, in the fall of '68, I found a lovely satiny material in a wide range of vibrant colours that cost so little I thought it must be a mistake. Such gleaming brightness! If sunshine were fabric this would be it.
I discovered that this material was only meant for the inside of a garment. It was lining! But I thought it a terrible shame to hide it, so decided to buy some in lime-green and fashion a circle dress out of it. With its big bell sleeves and tasseled sash, it was a hit at my school, and pretty soon three other girls had also sewn frocks out of colourful lining.
I have always been drawn to outrageous clothes and flashy accessories, and the 60s were the perfect decade for that. I didn’t have much money, so I had to be inventive - like crafting my mother’s silver-link belt into a headband. I didn't ask her if I could, but I think she was okay with it; she always supported my creative impulses.
By the 1980s, I was a young mom with two beautiful babies. All my clothes had been selected to absorb leaking breast milk and whatever else seeped onto them. As the kids grew, my wardrobe had to allow for finger paint, grass stains, spilled juice. I wore practical shirts and routine trousers - and my bathing suit whenever I could!
Money was tight, and so was my husband most of the time (which is where any extra cash went). The kids and I made good use of free resources: parks, libraries, drop-ins. I always maintained some sense of style by accessorizing with a yard-sale scarf or a pair of cool dime store shades.
Also, whenever I could, I wore jewelry. I have always said that whether you’re putting out the garbage or going to the opera, diamonds are fitting (even paste, especially paste).
When the kids were five and nine, I got a job as an usher in a children’s theatre. I wore a uniform and kept watch over the audience, including my own little theatre-goers.
Sometimes after a matinee, my kids and I got ice cream and strolled around. Near Christmas we’d go see the windows at Simpsons and The Bay. My eyes were always delighted to see the same glittering fabrics of my youth. But my meager income was better used on books and puzzles.
Then, in the summer of '94, I saw the most amazing ensemble: gold, wet-look hip-huggers with matching camisole. Reflecting display lights in a store window, the outfit catapulted the skinny mannequin into rock star status. I had to have it.
I had nowhere to wear it, but the purchase served as a reminder of a life I wanted back, a life with freedom - not the freedom to go clubbing, where probably the flashy threads belonged, but the freedom to be myself.
While I didn’t miss my former life as a struggling actress, I did miss the sense of self the theatre had encouraged in me. It was okay if my identity melted into baby fevers and midnight colic, but what wasn’t okay was my husband constantly chipping away at my self worth, always condemning, never supporting.
One night, when he was out at the usual bar and the kids were asleep, I wiggled into the stretchy duo. I’d hidden them away, but now, fitting me like a golden glove, the spectacular outfit became my superhero uniform.
I didn’t want to hide it anymore. I didn’t want to hide me anymore. I did a few silent disco dance moves in it then packed it in a backpack, along with provisions for three. I stashed the getaway bag in the closet, then waited till the time was right. It came a few months later.
I never wore the dazzling two-piece again - a single mother without a co-parent doesn’t strut the metallic dazzle much, but it’d given me the courage to walk out on an abusive relationship.
I started a kids’ acting school with a friend and to promote our business, we dressed as clowns and went to fairs to hand out flyers. I wore shiny pants and funky shoes, and topped the look with the liquid-gold cami. It went well with my red clown nose and newfound freedom.
My kids are all grown. The camisole and pants are long gone. They don’t make them like that anymore - but they should. I'm in good shape, but even if I wasn't, I’d wear that ensemble to the grocery store or for a walk in the rain. And I'd dance in it.
I've earned my power suit. Please bring back the body-hugging, 90s-cut, liquid-gold superhero uniform!
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About the Creator
Marie Wilson
Harper Collins published my novel "The Gorgeous Girls". My feature film screenplay "Sideshow Bandit" has won several awards at film festivals. I have a new feature film screenplay called "A Girl Like I" and it's looking for a producer.
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