Everyday on my way to work, I pass the same teen waiting for the bus. He has black Beiber hair and usually wears combat boots, shorts and a black hoodie. He sings and enthusiastically headbangs to whatever is coming through his ipod. My hubby and I critique this kid's clothes each day.
"He's in shorts again. Does he notice the foot of snow?"
"Ooh, combat shorts. Way to stick it to black!"
"Honey, he's all Green Day up top with a natty red tie. Speech or girlfriend?"
"I don't get the way kids dress."
And that's the key. I'm completely mystified by the way teens dress (just as mystified as I was as a teen). Avril Lavine's mall skater look has had a hold on Northern Indiana for ten years. Blair Waldorf prep never even blipped the radar. Now that the 90s are coming back hard enough to register at Forever 21, I have even more of a reason to be confused by teen clothes. I wore some of the 90s in the 90s. Not cool a second time.
Here's why I'm a terrible person. I let a little bit of this slip in front of my youth kids, teen girls who have enough image problems without me piling on. All I said was that there's this hilarious headbanger whose clothes hubby and I comment on, and I could see their little self worth shrivel, their eyes fearful that now they have to worry about the thoughts of traffic. Of course, I can't say that I'm old and don't get it. I can't be written off as clueless like Mom. I'm supposed to be imparting wisdom into their lives, giving them guidance but because of my poor direction, I let them veer into a ditch.