In the summer of 1997, when I was eleven years old, my mom and grandmother and I made a road-trip pilgrimage to the suburbs of Chicago to visit my late second cousin and her husband. For the most part, this was a pleasant visit; I idolized my second cousin, an extremely sophisticated ad exec with effortless fashion sense who would later give me my first New Yorker subscription. At that time I was at peak adolescent awkwardness, a too-tall babyfaced half Asian tomboy still too uncomfortable with my physicality to deviate much from a uniform of oversized tees and baggy boys shorts. In other words, I was self-conscious in a way most anyone is at that age.
But Chicago was fun; my dad, who also lived in the city, bought me my first pair of...
via The Verge - All Posts http://ift.tt/1F0rd80
No comments:
Post a Comment