Worst day of the year? Non uniform day.
It always hits you out of nowhere, like the fly that suddenly appears in your eye, cripples you and makes you fall off your bike. Only non uniform day is so, so much worse. It always comes hurtling towards you at the end of the sports announcements, "Mrs Bloggs asks all year nines to attend netball practise at Tuesday lunchtime, all football practises have been cancelled this week due to muddy grounds and next Friday is going to be a non uniform day" and just like that, WHAM, a whole two weeks of my life is disrupted.
Girls of all ages descend into pandemonium, and the most frequently asked phrase is "What are you wearing?" the date, time, place is not necessary to add, everybody knows what is meant. Everybody, that is with the exception of the male population. Who despite their growing metro sexual tendencies have still not been liberated of uniform dressing. A uniform that consists of; relatively tight jeans, verging on skinny, chinos if particularly daring, a visibly branded polo or t shirt, topped off with an equally visibly branded hoodie. Et voila, you have a typical male teenager.
Yet despite their lack of individuality, interest in fashion or flair, they will still swagger around on the dreaded day with a smugly superior expression, as they openly judge the opposite sex. A once over and a small smile coupled with a raise of the eyebrow signals approval. Whereas a smirk and an obvious aversion of the eyes to the ceiling equals; you look like you dressed in the dark. As pathetic as it may sound to those wizened in the ways of the world, it is these small Miranda-Priestly-from-The-Devil-Wears-Prada signs that have some girls crying in the toilets by break time. It is obvious from these visible indications of lacking self confidence that they are not in possession of a mother like mine, who would, after one look at one of these mascara streaked faces and raw red eyes, would yell "Get a grip, girl!", and not in a kind comforting way.
Speaking of my dearest mother, I decided that the only way to appear next Friday was to appear fashionably. I repeated this sentiment to her in the car as she chauffeured me back home from school. She was in hearty agreement of this opinion, with the only conditions fashionable did not mean too short, too low or too tight. I rolled my eyes at her asking whether she thought I was a respectable schoolgirl or a hooker, and in addition those kinds of clothes are only for parties.
However despite this apparent agreement, she refused to buy me a new outfit! To be perfectly honest, one would expect a mother to exude a little more love and kindness toward a daughter who has brought so much joy to her life simply by her mere existence. Plus, to make matters worse, and to possibly ruin my life completely, she has also banned dad from "lending" me money. I can only reason that this is because between the two domineering women in his life, his wife and his daughter, his wife is much scarier; she kicks like a donkey.
I am going to have to brave non uniform day in old clothes.
As much as I hope a meteorite hits the earth before Friday comes around, my impenetrable logic tells me not to bet on it. So here is the million dollar question, the question uttered by thousands of women across the world on a daily basis, the question also asked by thousands of grumpy men after their wives tell them they look awful; "What shall I wear?".
My dad unfortunately still believes I am seven, not 17, and thus enjoy wearing flower printed leggings and jelly sandals, so his opinion is not one to consider. Therefore I turn to mum, who responds "Dear god, you have two weeks decide!" apparently unaware of the importance of such decision. I finally, after a brief struggle drag her up to my room and seat her on my bed in front of my rather lacking closet. "How about a nice pair of jeans and a top?" she suggests helpfully, I feel like throttling her.
I sigh nonchalantly and pretend to not have heard her, as I begin to pull things out and offer them to her as if sacrificing a lamb upon a barbaric altar. Body con skirt, "too tight". Dress, "too cold". "Boyfriend jeans, "Hmmmmm". It goes on, until I finally find myself at a dead end, surrounded by piles of clothes tossed into messy heaps.
"Fine, mum, what do you think I should wear?", beaming as if proud of the fact that I have asked the question, she saunters up to my now near empty wardrobe pulls down an old pair of dark blue skinny jeans, and long sleeved silky black top. "See, jeans and top!" she says triumphantly, I am too tired to argue, plus, why bother? Mother knows best, apparently.