I Survived the 90's. My Eyebrows Did Not

Looks like someone had a few too many Midori sours.

I've been in the process of going through all of the crap that's accumulated around Casa Lane over the last three years.  Call it what you will - Marie Kondo-ing or purging - but it's really more that I haven't had a chance to get rid of stuff since I went through the whole nesting stage back when I was pregnant with the Muffin Man.  One doesn't exactly get a lot of chances to use the label maker when chasing a baby and a toddler. 

Now that my kids are older and therefore able to entertain themselves while I ignore them, I've been slowly sorting through all of the accumulated junk that's managed to pile up in the closets, cupboards, and garage.  Pro tip: you really don't need to hang on to a bunch of spit-up stained bibs if your uterus is closed for business.  Also, you really are never going to fit into those pre-pregnancy jeans again, so stop holding on to hope and invest in a pair of pants that don't cut off the blood supply to your lady parts.

As part of my garage purge, I stumbled upon a giant box filled with old photos from my high school and college years.  While I was sorting through the pile of snapshots, two things crossed my mind: one, that my children will never experience having to wait several days or weeks in order to see what the photos from their disposable camera look like, and two, that there were some really hideous trends from the 90's.

Brown lipstick.  I'm sure there are women who look incredible in brown lipstick.  I, however, am not one of these women.  The fact that brown is not my color did not dissuade me from wearing this trend with pride.  I spent a significant portion of my allowance at the local drugstore purchasing tubes of some hideous, slightly shimmery cocoa-brown color.  I guess if the look I was going for was "crypt keeper" this would have been an excellent fashion choice, which I will certainly keep in mind come Halloween.

Giant clothing.  I came of age during the grunge era, which means that I listened to a lot of Nirvana and Pearl Jam while smoking pot, and that all of the clothing I purchased was size Men's XXL.  My body type has not changed significantly; I'm still a toothpick, just older and saggier, so I had no business wearing an XXL anything.  In hindsight I realize that most of my sartorial choices back then hinged on my wanting to hide my slender figure, but instead of turning me into some sort of voluptuous goddess I just looked like a badly-dressed toothpick.  On a side note, if I could go back in time and give my teenage self some advice, it would be to wear midriff tops every single day, because I had amazing abs and it's a shame that I kept those undercover.

I graduated from NYU, but it appears my eyebrows did not.

Over-plucked eyebrows.  As a woman who comes from a rather hirsute background, I have spent my life attempting to tame the uni brow.  I didn't learn about the magic of waxing until I moved to New York because, Berkeley, but once I did discover the allure of hot wax and no body hair, I began a years-long obsession with removing all traces of my Russian Jewish ancestry.  Unfortunately, I got a little too close to my waxer, and while I'm grateful to her for ridding me of my uni brow, I wish she hadn't taken off quite so much of my gorgeous Ashkenazi dual brows.  It turns out that looking permanently surprised is not a great look for most women.

The Rachel cut.  We all had this, right?  I mean, it was the hottest haircut in practically ever and yet it was heinous.  Who in the Hell thought that a weird, layered bubble cut would be flattering?  I clearly remember thinking I looked so hot when I walked out of the fancy San Francisco salon that specialized in this tragedy of a hairdo.  I spent precious amounts of time blow-drying my hairdo every morning - time when I should have been sleeping - in order to make all those layers look halfway decent.  I have super thick, wavy hair, which, it turns out, meant that if I didn't spend the time to blow dry my hair would have me looking like some kind of Golden Doodle who'd been to a sub-par groomer.  Thankfully, I was saved by a cross country move and an (expensive) New York hairdresser who turned me on to the pixie cut and the joys of doing blow at work.

Midori sour.  Whoever invented this drink and dared to call himself a Mixologist should be drowned in a bin of dirty ice, because this "cocktail" is vile.  I sincerely hope that the young girls of 2016 are not still ordering this monstrosity and fancying themselves sophisticated, because this is basically just Otter Pop-flavored alcohol.  I threw back my share of this horrendous drink, which may explain why I slept with as many losers as I did.  Any drink that is garnished with a cherry - other than a classic Manhattan - should not be ordered by any woman fancying herself an adult.

I guess, when all is said and done, I'm happy to be a grown-up.  Sure, I would love to have those teenage abs back, and I could really do without the postpartum tummy pooch, stretch marks, and saggy boobs, but at least I have a great haircut and would never, ever be caught dead drinking any cocktails the color of nuclear waste.