A Tale of Two Goodie-Two-Shoes
There is something so humorous—or pathetic—about wearing a tank top over a T-shirt. I don’t mean in the Clueless sort of way, or in a cool way either. What I’m referring to is a situation in which I can tell that a parent is involved. A compromise. Like: You may wear that light purple spaghetti-strap but only if you wear a large T-shirt under it.
The results are uncanny. Pigtailed and lip-gloss ready, the tween appears to be stepping out—but really has one foot still in the doorway. The tank top’s very existence becomes a negotiation. I would compare it to fitting a high heel over a foot cast and calling it a day.
Recently, while staying at an oceanfront hotel in Sesimbra, Portugal I noticed with much glee that I was not the whitest tamale on the beach. The British have come! I gasped. My ears popped like a boom mike honing in on a particularly pink and snouty family, whose two daughters, probably a mere 4 years my junior, were still required to dress in coordinating ensembles. My upper lip curled horrible.
At the dinner buffet I saw them again. I knew right then I would be tailoring their every move throughout the duration of my stay. I don’t know how many codfish cakes they piled on their plates but I do know they were wearing tank tops with T-shirts under them. They also wore white sandals, each a different, more personal interpretation of the words “wide” and “nurselike”.
Moments later I caught wind of the father, who was blundering about a dish of arroz malandro in the entrees isle. He was notably overdressed and I recalled that in heat this is usually taken as a sign of mental illness. It is 98 degrees outside! I scoffed over a pile of parsley soaked tentacles. His daughters were undoubtedly boiling and oppressed.
I imagined that after begging with their mum for two hours they came to this very special agreement... or cease-fire.
But Tibby and Bitty (as I’ve named them) seemed happy, almost jubilant! Each wore a screechingly tight ponytail, Tibby going so far as to crown herself with a suffocating arrangement of banana-clips, lest any hair should escape. (My grandmother had been trying to get me do this for years.)
Then I realized: the tanktop as outerwear could have been their decision. After all, there were already many factors contributing to the depletion of their mojos, as it were. The bluntness to which their hair was cut. The staunch “call on me!” uprightness of their necks. The total glaring absence of any life markings, such as earrings, or a peg leg. Had they been born this morning???
On seventh glance, when I caught them prancing about the dessert table in a frenzy, I understood (with some guilt on my part) that they probably had some sort of disorder. Perhaps they went to church? I felt a slight beam of pride connecting this to the shoulder-covering dot. They do it because they believe in God, I thought. And somehow, suddenly even I, felt absolved.