Dress Up

I have a redonkulous dress up collection. I love nothing more than to pull out my dress up boxes (yes, plural) and get into costume.

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Groucho Marx and what appears to be an indigenous disco granny.

I still have the original bunny ears from my first ever ballet recital, as well as almost every other sequined tutu I donned for my performances. Thanks to extraordinary elastic, some of them actually still fit.

I have cowboy hats, feather boas, purple Keds, superhero capes, masks, neon orange fishnets, wigs (oh so many wigs…the mullet is my favorite), mustaches and beards (I dig facial hair), gowns, blazers, corduroy pants (from the first decade they were cool), about 30 pairs of funky sunglasses, and fake teeth. If I ever needed to change my identity and disappear, I’m fairly certain I’d be all set.

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An old cigar smoking guy with a ringleader mustache and giant bootie. Of course.

My sister and I used to haul out the dress up box (that eventually became multiple boxes), piled high with clothes from Mom’s heyday in the 60s and 70s, Auntie Meline’s endless sequined and feathered concoctions from garage sales and dance performances (or just Tuesday afternoons for her), and random other places.

We somehow became a repository for everyone’s weird apparel. I ended up with a full length silver sequined jumpsuit that looks like it belongs in the wardrobe room of The Last Days of Disco.

Friends and neighborhood kids would come for parties and we’d all get into costume and run around like insane asylum occupants.

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There’s so much amazing awkwardness in this photo. Halloween parade with a grouchy gypsy, a cavewoman trumpeter, a prairie princess (?) with a clarinet, and the lovely Dolly Parton, also on clarinet.

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Even my dad got in on the action at times.

Today, my not quite two-year old sidled up and began helping me organize the linen closet…wearing a Peruvian devil mask over her face.  It appears this affliction has been passed down to the next generation.

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