When I was in eighth grade, I woke up one morning and made a rather startling realization: I had a pink room! Not just a little bit of pink here and there, but a lot of pink everywhere.
From the pink-and-white striped wallpaper to the pink floral bedspread to my pink toothbrush holder, I was up to my ears in 43 different shades of pink. While everyone else my age had Nirvana posters on the wall, I was stuck with a very serious case of Laura Ashley syndrome.
I voiced my concerns to my parents by way of a tearful plea. Between adolescent sobs I reminded them that I was 14 -- practically in high school -- and yet I was trapped in the room of an 8-year-old.
Soon, the walls were transformed to pale yellow, and a new bedspread displayed not even one hint of pink. I even sprung for a new toothbrush holder.
Over the years, I've softened my aversion to pink (and my closet suggests that perhaps I've softened it too much). In any case, the other day I found myself faced with another realization: I'm too old to shop at Abercrombie & Fitch.
Granted, I haven't shopped at Abercrombie in a long time. That's because I swore off the stuff after seeing one too many of their cheeky T-shirts, and because (as you may remember from last semester) I have good reason to believe their cargo pants are the root of all evil.
Over the weekend I decided to give Abercrombie the chance to get back in my good graces (hey, it worked for pink) during a quick trip to the Fashion Scare. One of my roommates has a beautiful shirt that I'm always on the verge of swiping, and she told me she'd gotten it over the summer at (gasp!) Abercrombie.
So after glancing around to make sure no one I knew was in the vicinity, I slunk stealthily into the store for the first time in quite a few years.
Before my visual senses even had time to awaken to the experience, I was assaulted on an entirely different front. It was like walking into a club at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night, when the music's blaring so loud you can feel the bass thumping in your chest.
But the music they were blaring in Abercrombie wasn't your typical bubble-gummy club fare a la Kylie Minogue. I have no idea who the so-called artist was, but she sounded more like a woman going through childbirth than someone singing a song. Sort of like one of those overly graphic TLC shows, accompanied by drums and a guitar.
So there I was, just over the threshold of the store, already feeling like one of those stereotypical parents in a movie, ready to scream to the adolescent salespeople that they better turn down their "newfangled music" now. Naively, I chose to ignore this warning sign and continue on my journey. Only a few steps away, though, I encountered red flag number two.
It looked innocent enough from a distance -- a dark, circular wooden table stacked with neat piles of colored T-shirts. I casually passed by the table but did a double take when I saw this slogan:
"Abercrombie & Fitch: Three-Way in the Sticks. Co-Ed Invitational. Hiking, Climbing, Biking."
Whoa. I was starting to think that perhaps I had a sick mind. Yet the fact that this same company makes an "Abercrombie & Fitch / Completely in the Buff Triathlon / All you need are sneakers and a smile" shirt is a pretty clear indicator that I haven't just read one too many issues of Cosmo.
I was feeling more mom-like by the minute. Still, I gathered my wits about me and pressed on. By this time I'd pretty much written off my Abercrombie expedition as a bust, but it was fast becoming a test of fortitude. Could I make it nonchalantly to the back of the store before losing my wits and fleeing the scene?
As I wandered through the remainder of the store, I noticed that something else was amiss -- although I was physically at Abercrombie, I might as well have been at the opening of the newest Heath Ledger flick.
No one there was over the age of 17, it seemed. I wondered how half the girls there had even gotten to the store, because they certainly didn't look old enough to drive. And as they busily combed the racks looking for the last pair of size zero jeans, I suddenly felt how Martha Stewart would feel at an *NSYNC concert: stupid.
I paused at the rear of the store to pick up a white polo shirt. As I held it up, its little Abercrombie label flapped tauntingly on one side. Seven years ago I would have sported that label with pride. Now it was waving me goodbye. I knew that my A & F days were over.
I put down the shirt and bee-lined it out of the store as quickly as I could without calling attention to myself -- probably a fruitless move. I felt as conspicuous as a nun leaving a sex shop.
Just as I was all too happy to find I had outgrown my pink room, I'm also willing to admit that, two months shy of my 22nd birthday, I've also outgrown Abercrombie.
Call me mature, or call me picky. But whatever you do, don't call me ready to shop at Talbots.
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