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In-Between RUTH MOSS
Ruth Moss
In-between
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In 1993, in my froglet stage, still refusing to don a dress, I wore a lilac boiler suit, silvery buttons embossed with an anchor. Somewhere
between rubbed cotton and denim, it did not chafe my skin, did not cause ‘It’s itchy mum! Mum! It’s itchy!’ as so many other garments had.
At an age appointed ‘sweet’ by grown men watching Alice-band girls billow and swish as they jived, I was a Parma Violet, anthocyanin,
wash your mouth out. I scribbled notes in pastel blotters in-between reading pages of Feynman, reclined chest down, on my polyester quilt
having pruned off my school uniform, watched it plunge to the rug, standing almost bare like a style, stigma, then pulling up an instant
blossom of light purple overall, elasticated waist so sympathetic to my puppy fat. Ta-da! I wore it daily, washed weekly, until it eroded.
