It's no accident that things I love most fervently all hit peak popularity when I was at my most awkward, my least confident. It's why I still know the lyrics to Britney Spears' “Toxic” by heart, quote Mean Girls daily, and, yes, wear Juicy. These are the things I wanted to cling to out of hope that one day, I'd shed this frizzy, un-coordinated prison and emerge as a cool, confident adult. It's the same as how people cling onto blue eyeshadow or Clueless or shoulder pads as a way of saying, "Yes, I'm a part of a cultural movement that's bigger than myself." The things you hold in high esteem when your own self-esteem is low become imprinted on your soul in a way that's impossible to forget.

On a recent Thursday night, the first truly sweltering day of the year, I found myself frantically scrolling through eBay, desperate to find a specific item. It's a smocked strapless dress made of kelly-green terry cloth. Juicy, of course. Nothing exactly right is popping up — the closest items are either hovering around $300, or cut in children's sizes. I've seen it somewhere before, but I can't conjure up the image right away. Then it hits me: duh. I Google images of Sarah Jessica Parker and find her wearing the dress. My dress. She's pregnant and playing Carrie Bradshaw in season 5 of Sex and the City. Because it was 2003, she paired it with a cobalt-blue leather purse the size of a small toddler and red slingback pumps. I toggle back to eBay. Nada. Defeated, I go to bed.

Eighteen hours later, I'm leading my family down East 7th Street for a picnic in Tompkins Square Park. We're jabbering about Memorial Day plans and my sister's upcoming prom when I stop cold. There's a sale rack outside a vintage store, and the very first item hanging is the smocked green dress, size adult medium. It's $20. I buy it on the spot and wear it all weekend long.

It's ironic that wanting to be cool so badly has led to me to worship a brand that became the marker of uncool for many years. But part of growing into adulthood, I think, is learning to be okay with that. The reality is that I am not cool — not really, not now or ever. I can't name a single club that anyone would actually want to go to. I dance like a slightly drunk grandma. I don't even know how to use Snapchat. People far cooler than I might soon buy Juicy at Bloomingdale's. They'll think it's kitschy, nostalgic, hilarious. If the brand doesn't capture their imaginations the same way it's captured mine, they might cast aside their tracksuits in another two or three years, or whenever athleisure finally cycles out of fashion. And that's fine.

I'll still be sunbathing in Central Park, laid out on a towel in that green smocked dress, muttering my mantra for the past decade under my breath: Viva la Juicy.