Decades

I aspire to dress like I’ve been plucked from some rain-soaked, classy-violent city in the 1970s or from a ragtag spaceship on its way to a dark new world in the 3030s, but to my horror, my powder compact mirror clearly reflects a hurried office clerk from 1992. Teal-striped button-down over an unsnapped bodysuit, fringe bangs and a wavy bob half up in a black bow barrette; oversized glasses. Green eyeshadow. I’m not on my way to a payphone in the smoking section of a 24-hour diner. I'm not about to approach an iron-gilded moon base orbiting a wild gas giant. I’m drinking coffee and chewing gum; I’m powdering my nose and kicking at the two pairs of sneakers under my desk. I don’t know this you-know-her.