Last weekend I threw a birthday party for my little sister. There would be five 12-year-old girls in my apartment, and while I was excited to host them I couldn't help but worry that they would work themselves up into a hyper frenzy and start bouncing off the walls I share with grumpy elderly neighbors. That never ends well, so I planned a roster of party games that involved sitting down, writing, doodling, maybe taking a nap, etc. (What? Don't all the best parties include naps?)
As the guests arrived, it became apparent that this group was actually deathly shy, and more prone to milling around awkwardly than screaming and bouncing. Twenty minutes in, the party was quiet and I knew I had to change my game plan. I stood on my couch and yelled, "Pair up! I'll be right back."
I disappeared into my bedroom and ransacked my closet, grabbing purple blazers and pink tutus and sequined dresses and about fifty colorful silk scarves. I gathered up high heels and big bead necklaces and an impressive array of sunglasses. Then I walked back out into the living room where the girls were standing, quite obviously under the impression that I had gone insane, and dumped the tangled mass of bright fabrics onto the floor. I ran over to the stereo to turn on the Spice Girls' Greatest Hits and told each pair to decide who would be the model and who would be the stylist. "The stylist will create an outfit for the model using the clothes in this pile," I said. "The model is not allowed to complain about her outfit. We'll have a photo shoot, then the model and stylist will switch places. Ready? GO!"
It totally worked--the stylists pounced on the pile of clothes, laughing madly as the models shrieked, "Please! Anything but that furry rainbow belt!" As you can imagine, the outfits they came up with were pretty amazing:
Favorite conversation of the day:
Me: You actually look like a model!
Girl: Why would a model wear a tutu over jeans with three coats?
Me: You've never looked at a fashion magazine, have you?