This is the promised Go Fug Myself post, a birthday tradition as of 2007. This year I decided to take pity on L'il Una and focus on the growned-up version. Well, for the most part.
Circa 1990: This I must address, if only for the pants. The shirt (that says "Una") is, obviously, awesome, as are the unibrow and vaguely crimped hair. The acid wash jeans, however, are the sartorial equivalent of smelling my own armpit, as I seem to be doing here.
1998: This is me, at my wake ... I mean, prom. I had terrible skin, so I decided to cover it with Kabuki-like makeup. Little did I know I was before my time; seven years later, Edward Cullen would make pasty morgue skin sexy. (Bonus: my prom date had the reddest face ever, so we looked like a Halloween couple dressed as Mike and Ike's.)
Also 1998: Want to guess which Puerto Rican gang member I am in my high school production of West Side Story? Your clue is: thighs. Whoever said vertical stripes are slimming certainly didn't mean spandex.
Yup, still 1998: Speaking of ethnic adventures, here I am modeling some kind of Mexican peasant top for what I hoped would be my freshman year directory photo. It ended up being this:
Anyway, I like to think of the shirt as a piece of flair for my teen angst. Kind of like a sarcastic "Ole!"
1999: I cropped my sister out of this photo because otherwise she would never speak to me again. This was on a ferry in Seattle, the summer after I cut off all my hair and learned once and for all that in order to pull that look off you have to be gamine and have a tiny nose and also maybe NOT be wearing sneakers the color of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Yet again I am reminded of the grandpa in Sixteen Candles when he's on the phone with the police looking for the missing Long Duck Dong: "What was he wearing? Well, uh, let's see, he was wearing a red argyle sweater, and tan trousers, and red shoes ... No, he's not retarded."
2002: This photo encapsulates everything that is wrong with being 22. The fake sexy face that kind of looks like you're pouting while taking a dump, the incredibly visible bra, the fact that you think you are totally the shit, and so pose for your friend's camera with your pouty-dump face. Agh, shoot me.
2006: I'm not sure which is worse: The fact that I'm using socks as oven mitts or that tie-dye tank top. Either way, I'm making an "uh-oh" face. That might also be because I forgot pants. Whatever I'm cooking better be fucking worth it.
2004: I went through a period in 2004 when I thought wearing a tie was the cutest. I really could not get enough of myself. Sometimes (as above), I looked like a dwarf accountant. Other times, I looked like ... well, like this:
Which accessory is more unforgivable: The cigarette ... or that belt?
2005: Aaaaaand, this photo encapsulates everything that's wrong with being 25: the naivete required to purchase Carmen Electra's aerobic striptease DVD and that sweatband. The bravado necessary to pose with a screen shot of the DVD (and, of course, pouty-dump face). Here we come to a fun segment I like to call "Camera Pregnancies":
2003: That's me and my friend Bajir. We were not, shockingly, members of a basketball team (as you may recall, I am not a star athlete). And I am not, shockingly, five months pregnant, as it might appear from my belly, which is so fetchingly protruding from beneath my shortened jersey. I also caught preggers the night before my wedding in 2007:
This, friends, is the skinniest I have ever been. At my wedding I looked downright emaciated. But the 3/4 turn pose you see here -- coupled with the unfortunate empire waist of my dress -- created a seven month-old fetus. I will end with a re-post of the photo I use as my blog banner, and one of my personal faves. Note the self-same acid wash jeans from the first photo. Circle of life, y'all.
UNA: You wish you looked like me.
ZOE: Can it, bitch.
UNA: You wish you had high-waisted, acid-washed denim Capri pants.
ZOE: Actually I’m pretty sure I’m better off pantsless.
UNA: My two-piece looks like the Carvel ice cream logo. I RULE.
ZOE: You have one eyebrow and no belly-button. How does that work?
UNA: At least I’m not wearing bunny sneakers, halfpint.
ZOE: Um, I believe you belong in guest parking, hag. Read the sign.
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