“It’s fine,” I muttered, already imagining my grand entrance to the schoolyard the following week, thinking of the way McMahon strutted out toward the ring on TV. “This, I like,” she said, although it seemed to me she had liked everything so far, including the dozens of things I’d refused to even try on. I stepped out to show my mother, suppressing my pleasure. Shane McMahon, a wrestler and the son of WWF chairman Vince McMahon, often wore black track suits on the wrestling show Monday Night Raw, and though he was characterized as a sort of villain, I identified for some reason with his puckish swagger, and thought perhaps I could cultivate a little of it with a track suit of my own. This was 1998 I was about to enter the eighth grade, my final year, I was astonished to keep remembering, of elementary school. Glum and bratty, in the harsh lighting of the Zellers fitting room, I reluctantly squeezed myself into a pair of black track pants, not actually Adidas but in the same style. You might be lounging on the sofa eating ice cream, half-watching a daytime soap or movie matinee, when suddenly notebooks and pencil crayons would fill the screen, and an urgent call to rush to the nearest Wal-Mart for stationery before it’s too late would jolt you out of the carefree torpor in which you had been undisturbed since June.īack to school, the beginning of September: No other time of year besides Christmas felt so clearly defined to me growing up. The first appearance - on TV or on the car radio some unassuming afternoon - of a commercial for back-to-school shopping could spontaneously herald the end of the summer and the freedom from routine one too briefly enjoyed. It had its own mood and feeling, capable of arousing fits of imaginative anxiety and clenched anticipation. Article contentīack to school, the beginning of September: No other time of year besides Christmas felt so clearly defined to me growing up. This advertisement has not loaded yet, but your article continues below.
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