Coeds Need Cash Kristen

Coeds Need Cash Kristen

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First, I'll have you know that I was NOT a very stylish teen. I wore the same oversized grey hoodie and baggy jeans most of my senior year, paired with a ponytail and no makeup, along with shoes that I think actually turned out to be from the men's department. I care a lot more about fashion now, which is why I can probably sometimes be a little too quick to judge when it comes to my teenage sister's outfits.
Kristen is 16 years old and pretty much your typical teenage girl: She loves to read YA series like Divergent and The Hunger Games , she's obsessed with Marvel (especially when it comes to Spider-Man), and although her school has a strict dress code involving uniforms, she usually sticks to the average teen uniform of leggings and hoodies at home.
I was curious to see what would happen if I gave her complete access to my wardrobe and asked her to dress me for a week. Would she put me in leggings every day or dress me up in all the cute dresses that I own but almost never wear? Let's find out!
First of all, this is the sort of thing that I usually wear:
I work from home and prefer to stick to neutrals and comfortable-but-stylish basics. Black skinny jeans and a black jacket (or down coat, when it's cold out) are my mainstays, along with ankle boots and a giant scarf. I have to admit, however, that some days when I have a lot of work and don't even leave the house, I just stay in pajamas.
I told Kristen at the beginning that the only rule was to approach the experiment seriously, mainly because she said she was tempted to just make me look like a complete fool and embarrass myself. I explained that I was honestly curious to see how she would dress me, so she agreed not to treat it like a joke.
For the first day (a Monday), Kristen picked out thick black leggings, a blue long-sleeved t-shirt and a grey hoodie layered under a black leather jacket, and my Comme de Garcons Play Converse sneakers, which I love but don't wear often enough.
I really liked this outfit. It was comfortable and casual (so casual that I was relieved I don't work in an office), and I thought she did a great job with the layering. I did wish she had picked my down coat instead of this jacket because it was cold out, but I was still reasonably warm.
Also, I have to note that I looked over at Kristen at one point later that day and realized she was dressed almost exactly the same: black leggings with a hoodie and a black jacket.
For the second day, Kristen dressed me in boyfriend jeans, a white sweater that my mom just gave me for Christmas, ballet flats, and a pink blanket scarf. (No coat because I don't think I left the house.)
This was another comfortable outfit, and even though it was still casual, I liked that it had a softer, more feminine color scheme. The scarf and sweater kept me warm on top, but the ripped jeans and ballet flats without socks left my bottom half on the chilly side.
On day #3, I told Kristen I had to shoot a video, with the hopes that she would pick out something really cute. She chose black leggings again, a striped crop top, a black jacket, and black knee-high boots with heels.
This outfit made me complain all day. First of all, these are the same leggings from day #1 and they were covered in dog hair, since I hadn't washed them yet. Secondly, I would never pair a crop top like this with low-waisted leggings. I'm not generally comfortable wearing crop tops, so I only wear them with high waisted bottoms to avoid having my stomach showing. Finally, suede high heel boots when it's wet and muddy out? Great.
I was not warm or comfortable at all in this outfit. This is also when I started to realize that teens apparently don't care much about dressing for the weather.
Day 4 was New Year's Eve. I had plans to go to a party and then stay overnight at a hotel. I already had my party dress picked out, but Kristen chose my outfit for driving to the hotel (as well as an outfit for driving home the next day). She chose a striped, knee-length T-shirt dress, my new yellow coat, a floppy black hat, black leather gloves, and black T-strap flats. The flats were a compromise because she wanted me to wear black heels, which I refused to do while driving for two hours.
I didn't love this outfit. It was colorful and put-together, but all these pieces combined didn't feel like my style. Also she didn't pick out tights, so my legs and feet were cold.
I packed the outfit that she picked out for day 5 and wore it for checking out of the hotel, having brunch at a diner, and driving home. This outfit was comprised of the same black flats, a red pencil skirt, a short sleeved velvet turtleneck, and (hallelujah!) black tights. I also wore the yellow coat again.
I liked this outfit, although to be honest, after a night of partying I would have vastly preferred to be wearing sweatpants and hoodies like all the hungover college students in the diner that I stopped at. Also, I realized that this skirt (which I haven't worn in ages) is now too tight and can't be zipped up all the way. So thanks for leading me to that realization, little sis.
At this point, Kristen was obviously getting tired of picking out my outfits. She chose the same boyfriend jeans from day #2, along with a gray T-shirt, a cardigan (only because I complained about being cold), and black ankle boots. She also finally let me wear my down coat, since I had to make a trip to the library.
This outfit was a lot more casual than the previous two, but I was OK with that since I was just happy to be warm and comfy at this point.
By the final day, we were both feeling pretty over this experiment. She was tired of having an extra chore in the morning, and I wanted the freedom to choose my own clothes back. She quickly picked out black skinny jeans (because I told her there was no way I was wearing the same black leggings for a third time), flat knee-high boots, a blue and white striped turtleneck (who knew teenagers were so into turtlenecks?), and my Union Jack cardigan.
She also let me wear my down coat again, since I was taking my dog to the dog park that day. I was warm and comfortable again, and we were both happy to be done with the experiment.
To be honest, it started out well but went downhill fast. At first we were both excited, but in the end I was tired of being cold in outfits that bared my midriff or legs and she was tired of hearing me complain about her choices. Turns out, it was hard to surrender control of my closet, especially this time of year. It could have been much worse — she could have put me in high heels and crop tops every day — but it's not fun having to ask a 16 year old for permission to wear a sweater.
Still, when I think about my complete lack of style when I was her age, I have to give Kristen props. She did a nice job with layering, proportions, and mixing different colors and patterns. She could have just had me wear leggings and a hoodie all week but she didn't. Perhaps high schoolers are more excited to appear put together than we give them credit for.
Now I'm wondering what it would be like if I had my teenage brother dress me for a week...

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Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed. His acts were unthinkable, but now I'm ready to talk.
In Michelle Stevens' powerful, just-published memoir, Scared Selfless , she shares how she overcame horrendous child sexual abuse and mental illness to lead a satisfying and happy life as a successful psychologist, wife and mother. Here, an excerpt from the book:
Since birth, I had been Michelle Brechbill. Daughter of Judy. Granddaughter of Evelyn and Glenn. Now, with the flick of a pen, I was Mooch (a nickname) Lundquist, daughter of Gary, new student at his out-of-state school. In 1976 no one seemed to question any of this. No one seemed to care that my school records displayed a different name or that Gary was not my legal guardian. We weren't even related. He was just my mother's boyfriend. But social norms dictate that we do not insert ourselves into other people's personal lives. Being polite means keeping one's mouth shut.
And so I, the newly minted Mooch Lundquist, became a third grader at Delaware Township School. My classroom was on the first floor of the elementary building — just a staircase away from Gary. Every day at 3 p.m., as soon as the bell rang, I was expected to climb those stairs and report to Gary's desk. Inevitably, a few of his favored 10-year-old students would still be hanging around — joking with him or sitting on his lap.
Some days Gary would oversee an after-school activity. The gifted and talented club was invitation only — Gary's invitation, that is. Trouble was: Gary had no real training or authority to be administering IQ tests. Instead, he gave kids a short multiple-choice test, the Mickey Mouse kind sold in bookstores. Then, based on his findings, he labeled certain kids — the kids he liked and wanted to spend more time with — as "gifted."
I was gifted, according to Gary. This was a real convenience, as he demanded I join his, and only his, after-school clubs. He signed me up for his drama club too and encouraged me to sing in the school talent contest. On the night of the show, various kids performed their acts, and the winner was chosen based on audience response. Gary was among the judges who awarded me first prize. After that, I was given the lead in all the school plays that he directed.
To the other parents, I suppose it seemed that Gary was harmlessly lauding his new daughter. In a certain way, he was. Not because he actually thought I was gifted or talented. Gary was a narcissist, and narcissists view their families as extensions of themselves, as trophies. Gary believed he was superior, so it was imperative that the world see his daughter as superior too.
Behind closed doors it was a different story. Gary treated me with a dizzying blend of over-involvement, neglect, overindulgence and cruelty. With Svengali-like skill, he quickly took over every aspect of my life, dictating what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
Gary dictated what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
He also strove to monopolize my time — an easy accomplishment since my mother left for work before I awoke and didn't return until evening. During the school year, this meant Gary had me all to himself for an hour each morning and at least three hours every afternoon. Once summer came, he had me all day, every day, all to himself.
Summer was the time when Gary could really play out his S/M (sadomasochism) fantasies and treat me like a full-time sex slave. This meant being subjected to daily "training sessions" — intense periods when I was explicitly instructed on how to behave and think like a slave. Much like a dog must be trained to sit, to stay, to heel, practitioners of sadomasochism believe a sex slave must be trained in how to speak, sit, serve. In short, like a dog, she must be taught total obedience.
Gary's dungeon was in the basement. Because he had to avoid my mother's prying eyes, though, he could not leave it permanently set up like other S/M enthusiasts. Instead, he left a series of nails and hooks attached to the ceiling beams, which could quickly and easily hold a harness, a rope or some other type of bondage device. While much of Gary's paraphernalia had to be kept hidden, I could tell he also had some fun in displaying a few tools of his trade. The dog cage, for instance, was left in plain sight — folded up in a cluttered corner where it appeared to be waiting for the next garage sale. He also kept a wooden paddle hanging on the wall of his home office, which he jokingly told guests was for "errant children." Little did they realize it was no joke. Nor did most people realize that he kept a set of metal handcuffs in his desk drawer, right next to a stun gun and his handgun.
I can't remember being threatened with the gun — although it may have happened. (Due to amnesia, as well as the normal forgetfulness of memory, there are many details about my abuse I can't recall. I know this because, over the years, eyewitnesses have told stories about my abuse that I cannot personally remember.) I do, however, remember Gary threatening me with the stun gun repeatedly. He even used it on me once. Once was all it took. For after experiencing the excruciating, utterly indescribable pain it inflicted, I never, ever wanted to experience it again.
When he wasn't hurting me, he lavished me with parental attention. On the long drives to and from school, he would initiate conversations about history, politics and art. We ate nearly every meal together while he instructed me on things like table manners and ethnic cuisine. He gave me my first typewriter and influenced my decisions to become both a writer and psychologist. He took the time to open up the world for me. He was my first and most significant mentor.
Under my mother's care, I'd been neglected and deprived. She was constantly at work, leaving me alone and lonely. Gary preyed on that loneliness. Like any skilled pedophile, he identified what I needed, and he gave it to me. He made me feel special, talented, smart.
Even sexually, staying on Gary's good side had its advantages. For once he felt I had become sufficiently trained and submissive, most of the torture tapered off. Afternoons in the basement were replaced by the bedroom. And his fervor to cause me pain was replaced with a passion to bring me pleasure. I suspect it made him feel powerful — like more of a man.
Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed for what can only be described as a lovers' tryst. The weird part, of course, was that his "lover" was just under four feet tall and weighed less than 60 pounds.
Nearly every day at 4 p.m., he would summon me to bed.
There was also the inconvenient fact that his official lover, my mother, refused to vanish. Unable to ditch her physically, he did it emotionally instead. Every evening, he locked himself in his home office. Every weekend, he went to his store. As I was expected to work for him, I followed wherever he went. Very early on, my mother began to notice this pattern, and she didn't like it. Not one bit. Being immature, she didn't handle the situation with grace. She felt excluded, which she was. So she began to yell a lot, mostly at me.
One particular Saturday morning (we had probably been living with Gary for about six weeks), I was in the bathroom getting dressed for the flea market, just as I did every weekend. But my mother wasn't happy, so she stood in the doorway, whining. "What're you gettin' dressed to go there for? Huh? You oughta be staying home with me."
Just then, Gary came into the hall. My mother cornered him. "I want Shell to stay home with me," she demanded. "She's down at that flea market with you way too much!"
Gary, as always, remained calm during my mother's onslaught. Nonchalantly, he remarked, "Why don't you let Mooch decide what she wants to do today? She's perfectly capable of choosing."
With one quick remark, he had abdicated all responsibility for the situation. Instead, all blame was now placed squarely on me. At 8 years old, I was being asked to choose between my mother and Gary. It was not a real decision, of course. Gary knew this. If I chose Gary, he would immediately whisk me away from my mother's ranting — and probably offer some kind of reward. But if I chose my mother, there would be no one to protect me from Gary. Crossing him would mean paying for my sins.
So, I chose Gary, and my mother flew into a jealous rage. "The flea market!" she screamed. "You can't go to the flea market! I'm your mother! You're staying with me!"
But Gary was already whisking me out the door. "You asked her to choose, and she chose, Judy," he said. "Live with it."
It was with this kind of scene that Gary was able to drive a wedge between my mother and me. I am certain that if Gary could've gotten rid of my mother entirely, he would have. He lobbied hard to adopt me, but my mother resisted. Despite being naïve in many ways, she knew that if Gary became my legal parent, he would dump her and seek full custody.
Thankfully, she never fell for the trap. Still, I'm astonished that she chose to stay with a man whose deepest desire was to kick her to the curb and steal her young daughter.
Personally, I know for a fact that Gary considered me his true lover. I know because he told me so. Constantly. "You are my real wife," he would say to me each morning as we drove together in the car. "You are my real wife," he would say to me each day as we worked side by side at the flea market. "You are m
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