When I was six years old, I reamed my mom out on picture day because every other girl in my class was wearing a dress besides me. How could she have let this happen? I thought. I felt out of place, like a lone ranger in a sea of girly prints.

I tried to blame her, but really, it was all my doing — I was a tomboy through and through. I was the one who refused to wear a dress.

The next morning — after that fateful day — I doubled down on my non-girliness. And I did so by sliding on a pair of overalls, thereby turning my humiliating experience into a badge of honor. I like to think that was the moment when my obsession with overalls started. It was a piece of clothing that was both comfortable to wear and brought comfort to me. Soon enough, it became my identifier. Throughout the rest of first and second grade, I wore overalls nearly every single day. I had casual pairs (denim), seasonal pairs (corduroy), and fancy pairs (velvet) for extra-special occasions, like when my mom took me out of school early for a matinee performance of Cats.

I relished seeing my classmates ooh and ahh over my plethora of styles, which I’d carefully match with turtlenecks, striped tees, and patterned socks in a similar color scheme. (In retrospect, this was probably a sign of early-onset OCD.) It wasn’t all smooth sailing though. Great style often comes with a sacrifice: When I went to the bathroom, my poor teacher had to accompany me to help unfasten and fasten the buckles on my straps since I couldn’t do it by myself.

As a child, I idolized my two older brothers. I regularly accompanied my mom on shopping trips to Modell’s and The Gap, where I would, much to her chagrin, peruse the racks from the boys’ side of the store. Despite valiant efforts to dress her only daughter in frilly dresses with bows, my mom eventually came to terms with the fact that, once I became old enough to dress myself, I sought to be enveloped by overalls and overalls only.

My love of overalls could be entirely random, but more likely it was my calling. Anyone can wear jelly sandals and butterfly clips — it takes a special type of anarchist to defiantly wear a single garment over and over again. As skillfully demonstrated by my six and seven-year-old self, sometimes the right outfit is what makes you truly unique.

In case you’re wondering, I still wear overalls occasionally. And now, when I look at that photo that caused my mom and me so much grief 24 years ago, I proudly think to myself, Damn, she looks good.