That Time My Mall Rat Fashion From 1998 Became a $300 Runway Look

My mom texted me a photo last week that made me want to crawl under my desk and hide forever. There I am, age eleven, standing in our backyard in Milwaukee looking like I’d been attacked by every clearance rack at the mall simultaneously. Tie-dye bucket hat? Check. Purple glitter sunglasses that belonged in a rave? Obviously. A Limited Too baby tee layered over a long-sleeve shirt even though it was probably eighty degrees? Absolutely. And the crown jewel – these ridiculous purple jelly sandals that were so sparkly they could’ve guided aircraft.

“You insisted on wearing ALL of it at once,” she wrote. “Said you were making a statement.”

Well, I made a statement alright. The statement was apparently “I have no adult supervision and unlimited access to the juniors section at Kohl’s.” I’ve spent literally decades trying to forget that phase of my life existed. You know how some people have drunk college photos they’re embarrassed about? I have an entire childhood wardrobe that haunts me. Platform flip-flops that added six inches to my height and zero stability to my life. Pleated skirts with actual butterfly clips sewn onto them. Pants – and I cannot stress this enough – with words printed across the butt.

So picture my absolute confusion when I’m scrolling through fashion week coverage last month and suddenly I’m staring at a Miu Miu runway look that is… my exact 1998 outfit. Baby tee over long sleeves, mini skirt, colorful socks, and honest to god, jelly sandals. The fashion editors are calling it “innovative” and “a fresh take on Y2K nostalgia.”

I immediately called my mom. “They’re literally showing my childhood fashion disasters on runways and calling it genius,” I said.

“So you were ahead of your time,” she replied, way too smugly. “Should’ve kept those shoes.”

The thing is – and this kills me to admit – she might not be wrong. All those trends we collectively agreed were embarrassing mistakes? They’re back. Not just back, but expensive back. Designer back. Sold-at-Bergdorf-Goodman back.

I started investigating this phenomenon because honestly, it felt personal. Like the fashion world was playing some elaborate prank on everyone who lived through the original trauma of low-rise jeans and body glitter. But apparently there’s actual science behind why the stuff we wore as kids is suddenly cool again.

Fashion moves in these twenty to twenty-five year cycles, which means we’re hitting peak nostalgia for the late nineties and early 2000s right now. Everything that felt mortifying ten years ago starts looking fresh again at the twenty year mark. It’s like emotional distance creates aesthetic appreciation, which is a fancy way of saying we’ve finally recovered enough from the original embarrassment to find it charming.

Let me break down exactly how my childhood fashion crimes are being rehabilitated by luxury brands, because this list is both hilarious and deeply unsettling.

Those butterfly clips that were basically decorative hair torture devices? Bella Hadid wore a whole head full of them to some event and suddenly they’re sophisticated hair accessories. Chanel is making them now. CHANEL. They cost more than my monthly grocery budget and look exactly like the ones I bought in a twelve-pack at Claire’s for eight dollars.

Platform flip-flops, the shoes responsible for at least three sprained ankles during my high school career, are now being made by The Row. Same ridiculous proportions, same ankle-breaking potential, but now they’re minimalist leather and cost six hundred dollars instead of thirty-nine ninety-nine at Steve Madden.

And don’t even get me started on pleated mini skirts. Miu Miu put out this ultra-short plaid version that had people camping outside stores like it was the new iPhone. It’s literally the same skirt I wore to homecoming in 2004, except now it costs eight hundred dollars and comes with a waitlist.

The baby tee situation is maybe the most surreal part of this whole revival. Marc Jacobs is making them with intentionally ridiculous phrases, charging designer prices for the same shrunken proportions that used to signal “I shop exclusively in the junior’s section.” Celebrities are wearing them to red carpet events. It’s like the fashion world collectively decided that what we really needed was to make our most awkward teenage proportions into a luxury statement.

But here’s what’s really messing with my head – they’re not just copying these trends exactly. They’re reinterpreting them in ways that somehow make them look… intentional? Sophisticated? The jelly sandals at luxury retailers come in subtle colors instead of neon brights. The baby tees are paired with tailored trousers instead of low-rise jeans. It’s like they took all the fun, chaotic energy of mall fashion and gave it a graduate degree.

I met up with my friend Emma last week – she works in fashion forecasting, so she has to pay attention to this stuff professionally – and she told me something that made me feel both validated and completely insane. “I kept my old Frankie B jeans hidden in my closet for years because I couldn’t bear to look at them but also couldn’t throw them away,” she said. “Now they’re selling for serious money on resale sites as ‘authentic Y2K pieces.’ It’s therapeutic and traumatizing at the same time.”

That’s exactly it. There’s something deeply weird about watching the fashion choices that got you made fun of in middle school become editorial-worthy twenty years later. Like, I’m happy my younger self is being vindicated, but also, where was this appreciation when I actually needed it?

The more I’ve thought about it though, the more I think there’s something kind of beautiful happening here. Those trends from our childhood – they were pure joy, you know? Before we learned about investment pieces and timeless style and building a capsule wardrobe, we just wore stuff because it made us happy. Bright colors, sparkles, impractical silhouettes, maximum visual impact. There was no irony in it, no carefully calculated aesthetic. Just kids expressing themselves through clothes that felt magical.

Maybe that’s what fashion is missing sometimes. All that seriousness, all those rules about what’s appropriate and sophisticated and age-appropriate. Sometimes you just want to wear something that makes you feel like you’re eleven years old and the world is full of infinite possibilities and your biggest concern is whether your outfit has enough glitter.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, especially after I did something that would have mortified me six months ago. I was in this vintage shop in Chicago, and they had a display of jelly sandals. Perfect condition, priced at almost a hundred dollars because apparently plastic shoes are an investment now. There were all these Gen Z kids trying them on, talking about how cool and unique they were, and I had this moment of… I don’t know, protective instincts? Like I wanted to warn them about the blisters and the way they make your feet sweat and how they provide zero actual support.

But they were so genuinely excited about them. Not wearing them ironically or as a costume, just because they thought they were fun shoes. Which, removed from all my emotional baggage, they kind of are. Translucent colored plastic footwear is objectively interesting design, regardless of how I feel about my personal history with it.

So I bought a pair. Purple glitter, naturally, because some things never change. They’re sitting in my closet right now next to my grown-up shoes – the investment boots and professional heels and sensible flats that make up my current wardrobe. I haven’t worn them out yet, but just having them there feels like making peace with something.

I think that’s what this whole trend revival is really about. It’s not just nostalgia for the sake of nostalgia. It’s about reclaiming the parts of ourselves we abandoned when we learned to be embarrassed about our choices. The confidence we had before we knew we were supposed to be self-conscious about standing out or looking different or wearing too many colors at once.

I’m not saying we should all start dressing like we did at thirteen – god knows I don’t need to see another pair of pants with “JUICY” written across the butt. But there’s something to be said for remembering what it felt like to get dressed purely because something brought you joy, not because it fit into some predetermined idea of what was appropriate or sophisticated or age-appropriate.

The other day I was getting ready for work and I caught myself reaching for the same rotation of safe, boring outfits I always wear to the office. Black pants, neutral tops, nothing that could be considered inappropriate or attention-seeking or unprofessional. And I thought about eleven-year-old me in that backyard photo, wearing every single thing she loved all at the same time because why wouldn’t you want to be covered in all your favorite things simultaneously?

She had terrible taste by conventional standards, but she had amazing confidence. She wore what made her happy without checking to see if it matched or if other people would approve or if it photographed well. She just got dressed like it was an art project and she was the canvas.

I’m not ready to show up to work in platform sandals and a baby tee – I do have to maintain some professional credibility. But maybe I could add a little more color to my wardrobe. Maybe I could buy accessories that serve no purpose except making me smile when I see them. Maybe I could remember that fashion is supposed to be fun sometimes, not just a series of appropriate choices designed to help me blend in.

The purple glitter jellies are still unworn in my closet, but I’m working up to it. Maybe I’ll start by wearing them with an all-black outfit so it looks intentional instead of accidental. Maybe I’ll go full chaos and add colorful socks. Maybe I’ll text my mom a photo and tell her she was right about being ahead of our time.

Or maybe I’ll just keep them as a reminder that fashion trends are cyclical and arbitrary and the thing you’re embarrassed about today might be the thing that makes you feel powerful tomorrow. Either way, it’s nice to know that somewhere out there, a very expensive runway show validated eleven-year-old me’s aesthetic choices, even if it took twenty-five years to happen.