When I was a nine, Clarissa had the most amazing wardrobe ever (second was Cher from Clueless, third was Claudia Kishi). As far as I was concerned, the apex of style was this:
I did the best with what I had – from the ages of six to ten, never was I without a headband. Separating me from my bike shorts was near impossible. I didn’t have the giant vests or globe earrings, but dammit, I was doing my best.
But I knew that one day, when I was an adult, I would be able to buy my own clothes. Freed from my mother’s tyrannical requests (“It’s raining, maybe you should wear pants instead”), I would put together the ultimate Clarissa wardrobe. I would also be able to stay up past nine and eat cake for dinner.
Then I became an adult and realized that it was a ridiculous plan (except for the cake for dinner part. Tastiest. Plan. Ever.). But otherwise, a ridiculous plan.
Apparently, other little boys and girls had the same plan, except they never became jaded. They just became designers, and produced things like bike shorts with lace panels.