My family nearly disowned me the Easter of 1990. I decided to wear a 12-layer pink petticoat to church.
My 10-year-old brain thought it looked royal. The mutha of all ballerinas. Plus, the slip had incredible twirl action, rivaling a helicopter blade when I got going.
As the fashion horror story goes, we were late (I was probably busy spinning), and, of course, the only open seats were in the front row. I remember walking through the tight aisle, the itchy tulle of my massive skirt scraping the bodies I pushed past. The shuffle was loud enough that the pastor stopped and waited for us to sit (which took awkwardly long because I couldn’t find the pew).
My mom looked physically ill. And now that I think about it, we never returned to that church.
Some people just don’t have an appreciation for the Twirl Factor.