The high school that I went to was a great school - it had a 100% pass rate, the facilities were top of the range, the classrooms were neat and tidy, each class had under 25 students and the teachers were always available to talk to if you needed them. It was a private high school, and it was fabulous. A lot of people say that they hate their high schools experiences, and I am not one of them. My high school days were some of the best.
One of the things that made my high school days better than those of primary school and marginally better than those of middle school (though the middle school was also a private school and part of the same system as my high school) was the uniform. In primary school, we had a very strict uniform. All the girls looked identical from their white collared skirts and ghastly maroon pinafores to their white socks and black shoes. On sports days we were allowed to wear tracksuits, but only on sports days. In winter the white socks were to be replaced with black tights of a regulated thickness, the short-sleeved collared shirts with long sleeved replicas, and a maroon tie was added to our repertoire of fashion decision-making. If your hair was long enough to touch your shirt collar, it had to be tied up and it had to be tied up neatly. Earrings were not allowed, and girls would often scramble for the nearest brush to pull out a pin to replace their earrings with. It tells you something about the military style of my primary school. Another not-so-fond memory that I have is of having to walk down the corridor in a long line being careful to tread within the boundaries of the third tile from the left. If we stepped out of line, there was hell to pay. The school wanted us all to be drones, perfect carbon-copies of each other and were prepared to beat us into submission if we didn't co-operate.
When I came to middle school, the uniform was slightly more relaxed. A far more dignified navy blue skirt accompanied a white shirt with the Herzlia badge. Your shoes had to be closed and black, but that was as far as the restrictions went (within reason of course - you couldn't exactly turn up in high heeled black boots and expect to get away with it.) We also had choices. If you didn't want to wear the white shirt, you could wear the blue gym shirt instead. If you didn't want to wear the skirt, you could wear your the navy tracksuit trousers. In winter, you could replace your short sleeved white shirt for a long one with a tie, but hardly anyone did that. Most opted for one of the two jerseys that we could choose between or their tracksuit jacket. It seemed like joyful freedom compared to the nazi-like inspection at the hands of the Welgemoed Primary School teachers. The school itself was far calmer as well. I recall sitting in a class and the teacher, Mr Rabbitz, calling on me from the front.
"Yes, Sir," I replied. The reply had been drilled into me when I was not even six years old, on the first day of primary school.
His face turned a dark red.
"This wasn't the military," he screamed, "and I am not a Sir!"
I had never been so frightened in my life. Everyone else thought it was hilarious.
And then I came to high school. I had heard of the joys of the high school uniform (though it could hardly be called a uniform anymore) but I hadn't dared to believe that they were true. You could choose between one of two golf-shirts, one of two jerseys, you could still wear the tracksuit if that was your cup of tea or you could wear your skirt. But, bliss of all bliss, you could wear jeans. There weren't regulation jeans - you could wear almost anything as long as it wasn't too embellished or flashy and you could wear a jean skirt as long as it wasn't too short. And so my high school years were spent in luxurious comfort. I even became a bit daring at times, leaving my hair loose, wearing the occasional item of jewellery, growing my nails as long as I wanted and investing in a pair of slightly platformed shoes that made me look a little taller than I was. I never got into any real trouble, though I do still remember being caught by Mrs. dos Santos wearing a plain white t-shirt underneath my hoodie. She wasn't impressed. I got told off and had to write her a note of apology. No harm, no foul.
By the time I left for University, jeans were my standard. You would hardly ever see me in anything other than jeans and a t-shirt unless it was a special occasion or all of them were in the wash. I would occasionally throw in a skirt or dress if I was feeling particularly girly or a pair of cargos if I was feeling particularly grungey, but jeans were my go-to.
"What are you going to wear to go out tonight?"
"My nice jeans and a sparkly/cleavagey/smart/combination-of-the above-top."
"What should I wear?"
"Jeans."
"But I was kind of thinking of wearing..."
"Jeans."
"What is the answer to life, the universe and everything else?"
"42. And jeans."
This was my way for four years.
And then I came to Korea...
Before I left South Africa, I felt the need to go on a shopping spree. Okay, so maybe more than one. But I was allowed to. I had gone through my closet and found that I had no appropriate clothes for a job as a teacher. Sparkly and cleavagey were unacceptable, my smart tops were too tight and, horror of all horrors, I wasn't going to be allowed to wear jeans to work. I had heard horror stories about trying to find clothes in Korea and I was not prepared to chance it. And so, I went out and bought some smart trousers, a handful of appropriate tops and a couple of skirts in the vain hope that I would bring myself to wear them. And then I got here.
For the first few months I refused to broach the shops, knowing that they would just make me feel fat and horrible and I would never ever find anything in them. And then, one day about a month ago, I wondered into LPM in Shinae. I was drawn to the pretty dresses and I couldn't resist. What was the worst that could happen? They wouldn't fit, I don't buy them, my money is saved for better things. And so I tried them. And to my surprise, they fit! I left that day with three dresses in hand, a small fortune having been spent, but feeling like I was rewarding myself for the weight that I had lost and the sense of accomplishment I had gained.
The next weekend came, and I made my way into Seoul where my friend convinced me to come shopping with her at the "Western-sized" H&M and Forever 21. Well, it's summer, so I need shorts. And the top is too pretty to resist, I must have it. And I need a world-cup shirt in support of South Africa anyway!
The next week I was back in Seoul for the Mika concert. Even though Dawn needed to go back to Forever 21, I convinced myself that I could resist.
"I don't have to buy anything! I have enough clothes! I can live without!"
And then my resistance weakened ever so slightly.
"Okay, well I will just try it on. That doesn't mean that I have to buy it!"
And then even more.
"Well I like it, but I am not going to buy something that I just like. It has to be something that I love."
I ended up leaving with yet another dress.
"That is the last," I said to myself. "No more! Bad Lara! No biscuit!"
And I was very good for the rest of the month. Until yesterday, when I wondered back into LPM with Shaina.
It started off well enough as it always does, just looking and commenting and touching fondly, avoiding taking anything to try on. But as soon as someone else picks something to try and I know that I will have time to waste, I can't resist trying something on. I tried them all, one at a time, and one looked pretty good.
"It's not expensive," I say to myself. "It won't even come close to breaking the bank. What harm can it really do?"
But it was the gateway that led to me buying another shirt that I didn't really need (though I do love it to pieces) and a pair of leggings. I wanted to buy more, but did manage to resist.
Which is why, when Amy asked me to go shopping with her tonight, I politely declined. I know that another shopping spree will push me over the edge. I won't be able to resist!
And a big part of me doesn't want to.
One of the things that made my high school days better than those of primary school and marginally better than those of middle school (though the middle school was also a private school and part of the same system as my high school) was the uniform. In primary school, we had a very strict uniform. All the girls looked identical from their white collared skirts and ghastly maroon pinafores to their white socks and black shoes. On sports days we were allowed to wear tracksuits, but only on sports days. In winter the white socks were to be replaced with black tights of a regulated thickness, the short-sleeved collared shirts with long sleeved replicas, and a maroon tie was added to our repertoire of fashion decision-making. If your hair was long enough to touch your shirt collar, it had to be tied up and it had to be tied up neatly. Earrings were not allowed, and girls would often scramble for the nearest brush to pull out a pin to replace their earrings with. It tells you something about the military style of my primary school. Another not-so-fond memory that I have is of having to walk down the corridor in a long line being careful to tread within the boundaries of the third tile from the left. If we stepped out of line, there was hell to pay. The school wanted us all to be drones, perfect carbon-copies of each other and were prepared to beat us into submission if we didn't co-operate.
When I came to middle school, the uniform was slightly more relaxed. A far more dignified navy blue skirt accompanied a white shirt with the Herzlia badge. Your shoes had to be closed and black, but that was as far as the restrictions went (within reason of course - you couldn't exactly turn up in high heeled black boots and expect to get away with it.) We also had choices. If you didn't want to wear the white shirt, you could wear the blue gym shirt instead. If you didn't want to wear the skirt, you could wear your the navy tracksuit trousers. In winter, you could replace your short sleeved white shirt for a long one with a tie, but hardly anyone did that. Most opted for one of the two jerseys that we could choose between or their tracksuit jacket. It seemed like joyful freedom compared to the nazi-like inspection at the hands of the Welgemoed Primary School teachers. The school itself was far calmer as well. I recall sitting in a class and the teacher, Mr Rabbitz, calling on me from the front.
"Yes, Sir," I replied. The reply had been drilled into me when I was not even six years old, on the first day of primary school.
His face turned a dark red.
"This wasn't the military," he screamed, "and I am not a Sir!"
I had never been so frightened in my life. Everyone else thought it was hilarious.
And then I came to high school. I had heard of the joys of the high school uniform (though it could hardly be called a uniform anymore) but I hadn't dared to believe that they were true. You could choose between one of two golf-shirts, one of two jerseys, you could still wear the tracksuit if that was your cup of tea or you could wear your skirt. But, bliss of all bliss, you could wear jeans. There weren't regulation jeans - you could wear almost anything as long as it wasn't too embellished or flashy and you could wear a jean skirt as long as it wasn't too short. And so my high school years were spent in luxurious comfort. I even became a bit daring at times, leaving my hair loose, wearing the occasional item of jewellery, growing my nails as long as I wanted and investing in a pair of slightly platformed shoes that made me look a little taller than I was. I never got into any real trouble, though I do still remember being caught by Mrs. dos Santos wearing a plain white t-shirt underneath my hoodie. She wasn't impressed. I got told off and had to write her a note of apology. No harm, no foul.
By the time I left for University, jeans were my standard. You would hardly ever see me in anything other than jeans and a t-shirt unless it was a special occasion or all of them were in the wash. I would occasionally throw in a skirt or dress if I was feeling particularly girly or a pair of cargos if I was feeling particularly grungey, but jeans were my go-to.
"What are you going to wear to go out tonight?"
"My nice jeans and a sparkly/cleavagey/smart/combination-of-the above-top."
"What should I wear?"
"Jeans."
"But I was kind of thinking of wearing..."
"Jeans."
"What is the answer to life, the universe and everything else?"
"42. And jeans."
This was my way for four years.
And then I came to Korea...
Before I left South Africa, I felt the need to go on a shopping spree. Okay, so maybe more than one. But I was allowed to. I had gone through my closet and found that I had no appropriate clothes for a job as a teacher. Sparkly and cleavagey were unacceptable, my smart tops were too tight and, horror of all horrors, I wasn't going to be allowed to wear jeans to work. I had heard horror stories about trying to find clothes in Korea and I was not prepared to chance it. And so, I went out and bought some smart trousers, a handful of appropriate tops and a couple of skirts in the vain hope that I would bring myself to wear them. And then I got here.
For the first few months I refused to broach the shops, knowing that they would just make me feel fat and horrible and I would never ever find anything in them. And then, one day about a month ago, I wondered into LPM in Shinae. I was drawn to the pretty dresses and I couldn't resist. What was the worst that could happen? They wouldn't fit, I don't buy them, my money is saved for better things. And so I tried them. And to my surprise, they fit! I left that day with three dresses in hand, a small fortune having been spent, but feeling like I was rewarding myself for the weight that I had lost and the sense of accomplishment I had gained.
The next weekend came, and I made my way into Seoul where my friend convinced me to come shopping with her at the "Western-sized" H&M and Forever 21. Well, it's summer, so I need shorts. And the top is too pretty to resist, I must have it. And I need a world-cup shirt in support of South Africa anyway!
The next week I was back in Seoul for the Mika concert. Even though Dawn needed to go back to Forever 21, I convinced myself that I could resist.
"I don't have to buy anything! I have enough clothes! I can live without!"
And then my resistance weakened ever so slightly.
"Okay, well I will just try it on. That doesn't mean that I have to buy it!"
And then even more.
"Well I like it, but I am not going to buy something that I just like. It has to be something that I love."
I ended up leaving with yet another dress.
"That is the last," I said to myself. "No more! Bad Lara! No biscuit!"
And I was very good for the rest of the month. Until yesterday, when I wondered back into LPM with Shaina.
It started off well enough as it always does, just looking and commenting and touching fondly, avoiding taking anything to try on. But as soon as someone else picks something to try and I know that I will have time to waste, I can't resist trying something on. I tried them all, one at a time, and one looked pretty good.
"It's not expensive," I say to myself. "It won't even come close to breaking the bank. What harm can it really do?"
But it was the gateway that led to me buying another shirt that I didn't really need (though I do love it to pieces) and a pair of leggings. I wanted to buy more, but did manage to resist.
Which is why, when Amy asked me to go shopping with her tonight, I politely declined. I know that another shopping spree will push me over the edge. I won't be able to resist!
And a big part of me doesn't want to.
Post a Comment