Coatroom Confessions

A brief disclaimer before I begin: I love my job. In a miserable economy with desolate statistics for young adult employment (especially within the arts!) I have managed to find a job that I truly enjoy, which I learn a lot from, and that offers me exposure to a variety of different areas in which I might further my career.

And then there are the days you spend in the coatroom.

Yes, one of the not so glamorous aspects of art museum employment involves occasionally receiving and returning the many coats of the museum’s patrons. They come in all sizes and ages, levels of English and decorum, from elderly Asians to unfettered art students.

As you can surely imagine, the coats themselves vary tremendously. Yet be they puffy or Prada, they are flung with the same air of casual disregard across the counter, into the waiting arms of the (assumingly) trustworthy attendant. Today, I was that person.

I used to say (and still believe) that you can tell everything about a boy based on his shoes. (Keep your eyes peeled for that post.) I now believe that about all humans and their coats.

It’s not as simple as a price point or a preference, but coats are as much a part of our lives as our purses, except you hand them over to strangers without trepidation. Especially in chillier months, coats are worn near daily and subjected to the subway rides, Saturday nights, and Sunday outings. They develop a personality which mirrors the lifestyle you lead, and as the sometime person on their receiving end I promise you, these coats can carry some serious baggage.

For example: is it clean, or not so clean? Fur or faux? Did you go for style or sport? A practical expense like Northface, or a no-name-knockoff that will leave you shivering? How full are your pockets? How many coats are we checking?

Within a two minute exchange I have a pretty good idea of a family’s size, income, priorities, preferences, and politeness.

Of course, this is the necessary learning experience of anyone working with the public. It doesn’t take long to become pretty good at sizing people up when they must come to you for help.

What is amazing, though, is how oblivious some people seem to be. Trust me, when I’m working in the coatroom I am not looking for a conversation. But eye contact I can handle. A tip from someone wearing Topshop is a signal that they get what you’re going through. A blow-off by the Burberry crew is painstakingly common.

But there you go: society in a nutshell. We live among each other without often seeing who’s there.

Of course, the same goes for me. I shouldn’t judge anyone just because I get to see the label on their jacket. But should the tables be turned I guess I’m lucky: my coat’s a fox-trimmed hand-me-down from Korea; even I don’t know quite what to make of it.

Crush-Dressing

I have a crush on a boy. He’s supercute, supersmart, and we ‘click’. He makes me blush, and want to type winking emoticons as I write this.

I knew my affections had moved from casual attraction to an actual crush when I found myself altering my wardrobe choices based on whether we were working together or not. I would get dressed, accessorize, and take a casual glance at the daily schedule. If I looked extra cute and the boy wasn’t working, I would change, ‘saving’ the outfit for a day when he was. This happened two or three times before I started checking the schedule in advance.

If he isn’t on, it’s a perfect opportunity to wear the pants that are a bit too big on my ass, or the bulky sweater which I love but does nothing for the boobs. Likewise, I save my shorter skirts, tighter tops, and hair-down days for times when the boy will be around. I’m crush-dressing.

It’s so silly really—the differences in my actual aesthetic are so minute that I’m sure (or I hope) no one else is even aware. But I feel better if I look my best. That’s basic biology—fluffing plumage and all that.

The irony of course is that in all other realms of the animal kingdom, it’s the male who is adorned with bright colors and elaborate patterns to attract the dowdy female. Yet in current society, frequently the grungiest and least-showered males among us are the most likely to snag the supermodel. (Damn-you hipsters and your ironic fashion!) Us girls on the other hand primp, preen, lift, suck and shave ourselves into our closest approximation of the female ideal.

And though the feminist in me cries foul (or fowl), I’m not in the business of battling biology. Boys like boobs. Even smart boys. This isn’t to say that there aren’t different types of girls boys go for, of course there are. It’s also not to say that you have to alter yourself to snag a boy. Obviously, that would be a mistake.

What I’m doing is putting my best outfit forward when I know it will get noticed. And when the competition for cuties is as steep as it is these days, I don’t see anything wrong with that.

Responsible Retail

I went to the mall yesterday and didn’t buy anything.

I know, it’s shocking. I can hardly believe it myself. But I emerged from the Great Grey Way with a grand total of zero dollars having been spent. I didn’t even buy a Diet Coke.

You might be asking yourself, “How is this possible? It’s Christmas, beautiful things are everywhere! With gift wrapping! And even if she didn’t purchase for herself, surely there are others on her list in need of commercial demonstrations of love!”

All of these things are true, and I honestly ventured out with the intention of snagging a sale item or two before my holiday schedule swallows all shopping time. And yet…

As I wandered from store to store perusing plentiful displays of sequined, beaded, and bedazzled dresses, sweaters, bracelets and shoes it all started to look a bit … tawdry. It was way way too much. Even in Nordstrom, my haven from the sale-slums I usually inhabit, I found myself on ornamental overload. How many embellishments does one outfit need before you start to look like a walking kaleidoscope?

The other problem I kept having was that my own damn philosophy kept echoing in my head: One’s closet should reflect their discerning taste, and pieces should occupy a single space in their aesthetic. Translation: don’t buy the same thing over and over again. You get one. Wear it.

Thus, I simply couldn’t justify buying another cute camisole. I still have the tags on one I bought during my hooray-I’m-employed-again binge. Nor could I bring myself to try on one of the thousand of adorable party dresses. I already bought my designated dress (It’s an amazing black and white Michael Koors cocktail dress I scavenged from Marshalls last month). It would be wrong to upstage it before it’s even had its debut.

The other reason I practiced some level of restraint (for once) is because I’m currently in the midst of a financial exercise, and based on yesterdays results, I’m going to recommend it to anyone trying to save themselves from, well, themselves.

You see, I have a small bit of credit card debt, amassed not from the closet, but from being self sufficient throughout college and therefore largely dependent on the kindness of creditors. As a now functional adult, I am trying to eliminate this, but it’s hard for me as it requires throwing money at a problem that remains largely intangible.

So I made it tangible. I inventoried everything in my closet, starting with the newest purchases, and stacked them up against the amount of money I owe. Every month, as I make a payment, I tell myself I am ‘buying’ one of the items from the list. It makes it a lot more fun to pay one’s bill, and a lot harder to buy new sunglasses when I have told myself that I do not yet ‘own’ the ones I’m wearing. I’m sure any and all finance people are rolling their eyes, but as someone not traditionally wired to be economical, this system has been working well for me.

As I said, I went to the mall yesterday and didn’t buy anything.

No Pants Breakfast

It started out innocently enough.

The grandparents were in town for the week of Thanksgiving. We knew it was going to be a strange, intense week, and we prepared accordingly. There would be no talk of boyfriends, ex-husbands, estranged children or educational scandals. Proper manners, civilized language, and conservative dress. All the staples of a trauma-free Turkey day, all of which lasted approximately twelve hours.

It happened to me first. I had gotten up early, dressed, and was waiting patiently for the coffee to brew so I could crawl into work with my eyes at least partially open. I had planned ahead and done my hair and makeup before the shower could be overrun by the elderly, but no amount of preparation could have protected me from what happened next when dear, dear Grandpa came shuffling down to the kitchen in nothing but his skivvies.

It was horrible. I will spare you the specifics. I warned my mother when she reached the ground floor that Grandpa was in the kitchen. She didn’t understand what I meant until she saw what I meant. He was in the kitchen, all right. All of him.

I don’t want to make too much fun because it really is awful, but I do feel compelled to address the simple point that this will not do. It is never, never, not ever ok to go parading around someone else’s residence in your underpants. Especially family. Especially grown family. And especially when it’s not an accident. And if such a scenario does for some unimaginable reason befall you and you find yourself caught indisposed lurking over last nights left-overs, it is certainly not ok to linger! (Which of course is what Grandpa did, leaning on counters, enjoying a leisurely cup of café, much to our dismay).

I think we can all imagine what the (only!) exception to the mandatory-pants-at-breakfast rule must be, and in such situations it is certainly up to one’s discretion just how unclothed they choose to remain. I recommend a silk robe. Yet it is difficult to imagine that there could be any confusion when it comes to when it is and is not acceptable to throw propriety (and pants!) to the winds.

I suppose it could be argued that such a level of comfort and familiarity is refreshing, but I assure you: droopy drawers in the morning are not.

So people please, let’s all do each other a favor and air on the side of caution, and clothing, when it comes to the comfort of those around us. While some may feel at ease hanging out while it all hangs out, some of us prefer a more buttoned down approach. Or zipped. Or Velcroed for all I care. Just please, please, put on your pants.

Training Heels

I have a confession to make: I’ve developed an addiction.

As they tend to be, this addiction is immediately gratifying, but causes both short and long term physical damages.

I know better, but I don’t want to stop.

It hurts, but I like it.

They hurt, I should say.

I’m addicted to heels. Wedges, to be exact. In buttery leather, luxurious suede, patent leather, and in one special case, a divine combination. They’re averaging about three inches high and can be worn with absolutely everything. They anchor knee length skirts, sex-up suits, and add the perfect coolness to a pair of skinny jeans. They’re like the adult answer to Doc Martins—huge shoes that take charge, but this time instead of saying “Damn the Man!” they’re saying “I’m the man.”

Here’s the problem: I’ve never really worn heels before. This isn’t that shocking if you think about the difference between wearing heels sometimes, and really wearing heels. All day. Every day. At a job that requires you to run up and down a large, famous marble staircase multiple times throughout the day.

And let me just tell you, the heels have been hurting like hell. I’m able to put it out of my mind most of the day, but by the time I get home I am tiptoeing around like a coal-walker's apprentice. It never fails, too, that days I decide to give my tootsies a break are the days I’m required to sit on my tushey.

Yet this insane behavior goes back to my original sentiment about my job: it deserves aesthetic respect. And this means manning up and putting on my big girl shoes. That means heels. I feel like a child in flats, like I’m putting on my school uniform or dressing up in my mother’s work clothes. Serious shoes do more than dress you up, they pull you up, both in posture and perception.

Take out a magazine, a newspaper, or any form of media that features the kind of woman you admire. Not the models or the actresses in their contrived couture, but the people working behind the scenes styling, writing, and influencing these publications. Then look at their feet. They ain’t wearin loafers.

Kimora Lee Simons said it and said it well: “A woman can do everything a man does, and she can do it in stilettos.”

I’m not nearly to that point of success or stability, professional or podiatric, but I’m working on it inch by inch. In every direction I can.

Watch What You Wear

Shakespeare said it first and best: “Clothes make the man.”

Fine, the character he chose to iterate those words was a pompous ass, featured in a play dedicated to the skewering of all things pretentious and trivial, but the words have become entrenched within our societal lexicon.

Because they’re true, bitches.

I’ve said it many times and in many ways, but it bears repeating if only because for some, it seems the message has not sunk in: people can see what you’re wearing. And they’re noticing it.

I’m going to take a break from my normal self-aggrandizement to highlight two examples recently brought to my attention in which not only did clothes not make the (wo)man, they actively harmed her.

Case 1: A young-ish woman is appointed to a job at an organization made up of a city’s most powerful and influential people. It is rumored that she received the job as some sort of political favor/ exchange. She attends the first board meeting in a halter-top and flip- flops. Guess whose professional credibility is receiving further speculation.

Case 2: Another young woman’s company is called on to consult on an instillation project funded by a board consisting of older, conservative individuals. She is a tall girl and arrives wearing 6 inch, thigh high boots over tight jeans and a beret. I do not care how artistic you are. That is inappropriate. Also, the board chair said she looked like a Parisian hooker.

Ladies, you have got to get it together with the propriety. I mean, just because Lindsay Lohan insists on strutting into the courtroom like it’s a catwalk doesn’t mean the rest of us can forsake all semblance of societal awareness.

This is not a call to wear pantyhose, but it is a reminder that some people still do. And chances are that if you’re anywhere below 35, hose-wearers are the ones signing your checks.

As quoted above, Shakespeare’s Polonius reminds us that the correct outfit projects an image of control. By acknowledging that, you get to control what that image says. You can be aggressively arty at the art party, but maybe scale down the stilettos the next time the board convenes. You can also be aggressively assertive, demure, corporate, edgy, whatever. But know what you’re doing, especially when you’re in a setting (professional or otherwise) where the opinions of those around you matter.

Sometimes fashion isn’t about self-congratulation but simple strategy. Be yourself, but do so in a way that those you’re addressing will understand your message, rather than trying to force your self-image on an uncomprehending audience. They’ll only write you off or tune you out, which is no way to get what you want.

Case in point: all the words of Shakespeare don’t mean a damn thing if you don’t speak English.

Hoelloween

Ah, fall. The crispness of the air, the rustle of the leaves, and the clack-clack-clack of high heeled shoes hitting the pavement. Yes, that night of the year is upon us again. The night when the skirts shoot up, the lashes grow long, and the boobs overflow from their restrictive sheaths. For this night, tonight, is Halloween.

The whore-for-Halloween thing is something that puzzles me because I both totally get it and totally don’t.

As have we all, I’ve heard the argument that it’s about ‘indulging your fantasy’, ‘being daring’ and ‘letting go of your inhibitions’. (All of which sounds like the introduction to a tantric-sex class). But this means that in essence, on Halloween girls use this ‘excuse’ to suit up like the stripper they wish they were deep down inside.

Here’s the thing I don’t get. If you’re going to use Halloween as an excuse to dress provocatively, there’s good odds that you do so the other 104 weekend nights of the year. I mean let’s be serious. If a girl isn’t comfortable showing some skin when the club calls for it, there’s no ‘excuse’ that’s going to prompt her to suddenly break out a bustier.

I think there’s something fantastically fun and even sexy about having a night where you can wear literally anything you want, but I question the notion that what girls really want is to look like whores, especially when it’s pretty socially acceptable to do that any other day.

I’d much rather dress up like something I have absolutely nothing to do with. Last year my friend and I went as Wayne and Garth. In high school a bunch of us went as Newsies. Two years ago I really wanted to be a dragon, wearing a full green body suit and putting spikes down my back but I couldn’t find the equipment. Those things are FUN, and they’re funny, and they take advantage of the ‘excuse’ in a way that I actually enjoy because I don’t get to dress up like any of those things any other time during the year. I can always dress up like a hoe.

To that end, I have skirts in my closet that I’m pretty sure don’t cover my whole ass, which I wear when I want to look like a skank. I know what I’m doing; sometimes it’s fun, and wearing them is putting on a costume just as much as wearing a dinosaur suit would be.

I guess the difference is that, no matter what, I’m not really a dinosaur, but I could really be a skank. Which means that dressing up like a slutty nurse is indulging a hypothetical more than it is creating pure fantasy.

But whose hypothetical? Not to go all feminist on the issue, but these girls are clearly indulging the male fantasy that every female they encounter just might be a dirty sex goddess underneath it all. Or, in this case, underneath not-so-much. I have never been to a doctor’s office, police station, or school and been overcome with the desire for one of the authority figures there to immediately disrobe. Nor do I harbor the secret desire to let my inner bad girl out. And that’s because she’s already out when I want her to be, not when a holiday gives me an ‘excuse’.

I guess my PSA point is: do what you want! And enjoy it, but call it what it is. Being sexy isn’t limited to Halloween, and it definitely shouldn’t be purchased from Wal-Mart. Boys will think you’re hot whenever you project hotness. How often do you get to dress like a dinosaur?

(Can you guess what costume I’m wearing?)

Happy Halloween!

Closet Liberated

A couple of weeks ago, a miracle occurred: I got a job. This is exciting for many reasons, not the least of which is that now my fantasies no longer include embarking on a traveler’s quest to Peru, where I will dress in coco leaves and become impregnated by a man named Javier.

Additionally, it means I have to/ get to get dressed every day. This, friends, is a revelation.

For months (months!) my beautiful, plentiful professional clothes have hung silent and neglected in my closet. Accumulated over years of careful planning, meticulously preserved during moves both physical and professional, I have stacks of skirts and sweaters and jackets that have been periodically perfect when my life has called for me to pull it together.

Until recently, this had not been the case.

As a teacher, it does not behoove one to wear a silk skirt when one’s planned activities include making monster eyes out of egg yolk. As a server, the Uniform of Shame is a dictated monstrosity, and thank God for it because who wants to ruin their polos and their reputation. And last summer, my hideous pay-for-booze job essentially required me to wear tomato stains on a daily basis. It should go without saying that the tomatoes were probably worth more than the clothes I chose to go under them.

And so now it is with the greatest of pleasures that I have been dressing for a proper, civilized, highly visible and fashion forward position. The job is at an (The!) art museum, and so I have taken it upon myself to dress as if I were a part of the collection. Draping. Dresses. Hair. Heels. I want to look like a Vogue spread of Museum Girls at Work. Is this ridiculous? Probably. Do I give a crap? Absolutely not.

I am of course aware that to actually clad myself in period dress would be a touch too costumey, but I finally have the opportunity to dress like the highbrow art snob I have always pretended to be. Among my coworkers, I am not the only one to take this approach, but in general they lean more towards art-student-formal than art-patron-professional, which is the look I’m going for. And I’m sure there are some eye-rolls at the parade of blazers I have launched since I started work, but I’m refusing to tone it down. And why should I?

After all, when surrounded by such monolithic beauty, I feel it would be an affront to exclude myself from it. I mean, I live for this! My closet collection began long before I had an occasion to display it. And the closet liberation has been something I’ve been anticipating for years. It’s only now that it isn’t ridiculous that I have a blazer collection. I’m not getting paid nearly enough to go buy 12 designer blazers, but luckily, I’ve spent 10 years hoarding them. What I’m grateful for is that they’re already ready to go.

It’s probably insane that I’ve spent the time and money I have accumulating clothes before they had a purpose, but I guess I was putting faith in the future, as it were, and finally (finally!) the time for personal presentation is upon me. And every day, it feels fucking great to get dressed.

Closet Control

Rich people have so much crap. I mean sure, they can afford it. Lord knows I’d love to have an overabundance of money (and Monolos), but seriously, does anyone really need six blue micro-mini’s in their closet?

The offence doesn’t come with the ‘having’ but the ‘duplicating’. I have built a life (and a closet) on the strictly managed principles of quality and quantity control. I have one of everything. Do I have 'everything'? Debatably, but suffice it to say that there are no gaping holes (literal or figurative) in my closet. But I also limit the quantity to One. One pair of black dress pants, one white (and blue and pink and gray and brown and black) blazer, one formal cocktail dress and one skanky one. And they are all of the highest quality.

Despite my perpetual marginal employment, I refuse to shop at JC Penny or even buy Missoni for Target. It’s not that I’d rather go naked than wear fur, but that I’d rather go naked than wear faux.

So how do I make this happen? I shop at Marshalls. I swear by consignment shops. And if I see it and I love it, even if I don’t need it at that moment, I buy it. ‘Outrageous!’ they protest. But seriously-- how often have you been asked to cocktails and found a perfectly appropriate, high-end party dress at 50% off, that very day? Doesn’t happen.

If you’re crafty and patient enough, this can be a successful strategy. For example, I only buy denim if it’s over 70% off. Because of this, I have only 3 pears of jeans. Two pares were bought 3 or more years ago. But you’d never know it, cause you’ll be too distracted by how great they make my ass look.

I also have a policy of wearing exclusively cashmere sweaters. Sounds elitist, right? Well they’re purchased in the height of the summer, when retailers have buried them at the bottom of the discount bins. But as any good northeasterner knows, winter is always on the way. So plan ahead.

But I digress—the purpose of this particular post is not to flaunt my secret frugality, but rather to bemoan a seeming disregard among the affluent for simple economics. I mean really- does anyone, wealthy or well-fare, need six pares of black booties? Or four interchangeable blouses? Or a closet full of clothes they neither organize let alone incorporate into an outfit? It upsets me, really, that needless repetition and impulsive purchasing are corrupting so many upper-crust closets.

Each individual is of course entitled to as many spectacular splurges as they can rationalize. But just because you can afford it doesn’t mean you should forgo creativity completely. It’s a simple law of fashion, as it is in life: Just because you could doesn’t mean you should.

So cut the crap, richies, and clean out that closet. And while you’re at it, donate the discards to the local goodwill. Some of us are trolling for leftovers.

Matching

Last weekend I was helping a friend out at a “Bridal Block Party” he had coordinated. Woof. Smug and overly dressed up from an uber-important interview mere moments before, I was at the height of adrenaline-fueled independent-and-single pride. Yet standing at registration, offering free copies of The Knot to blushing brides-to-be and their resigned future husbands, I couldn’t help noticing how complementary the couples seemed to be. Everything from skin tone to shoe size seemed synchronized, as if they had already undergone the looking-like-the-dog phenomenon, before hitting thirty.

Watching the parade of humanity approach the desk two by two I felt as if I was watching the parade to the ark, except that rather than giraffes and parrots, the subcultures of humanity were processing across the alter to beget and refine their own particular sub-cultured gene pool.

In a lot of ways this is phenomenon seems obvious. We’re going to be attracted to people similar to ourselves, with a sense of shared experience and similar expectations of a future together. Assuming that personal situation and a person’s aesthetic are inarguably linked, it makes sense that people pair off with those who think, act, and (I guess) look like themselves.

There’s also the always annoying mantra that ‘water seeks its level’, and so beauties find beauties, fatties find fatties, and people with weird facial piercings…. well you get the idea.

People are, in essence, seeking their match. Like a pair of socks, you need something opposite but ultimately complementary. Something matching. Or maybe you’re one of those people that wears mismatched socks. In which case your boyfriend might not look as much like you as he would if you were one of those ladies who has slip-covers for her shoes.

In Korea, it is terribly trendy for boys and girls to wear ‘couples outfits’ when you’re involved with someone. You literally wear the same outfit. There are even stores devoted to the practice, offering anything from identical outfits in slightly different sizes to shirts whose pattern extends off of one shirt and onto the next. It’s kooky and extreme, but it’s also kind of cute.

I think that in the quest for a balanced life, we seek partners who compliment us, both in personality and presentation. And in the quest for self-expression, it makes sense that you’re perfect match is going to look like it. And so standing at registration, I admit to experiencing a tinge of couple-envy. Not to complete me or copy me, but to complement me. And maybe wear a couples-outfit every once in a while.

Dressing the Part

I have an interview at Anthropology tomorrow, and I’m totally psyched.

Yes, I know that given my college education and experience in education itself, I’m a tad overqualified for a job in retail. But I also know it’s a recession, the job market is tighter than a pair of Jeggins, and I need a reason to start wearing pants (or sweetheart dresses) in the morning.

I also know I love clothes, shopping, artesian pieces, and the store’s impeccable floor plan, including a fountain. I would love to work at Anthropology.

This will be my second interview with them, and of course my pre-occupation is not what questions I will be asked, but rather what to wear. I nailed it on my last meeting- white tank top, long sweater, unforgettable embroidered peasant skirt- but the fact is that my actual wardrobe leans more towards the punk-rock side of indi culture than the fairy-in-the-woods side. (What would Sookie Stackhouse wear?)

Herein begins the tricky dance of showing what you are, while also giving the people what they want.

I’ve already done this once this month, during a semi-ridiculous interview where I was told to dress “like you are going to a rock show.” I beg your pardon?? Because if I were going to a rock show, I would wear jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers. And so much eyeliner I would be indistinguishable from a raccoon. But that’s not what a potential employer wants to see. They want edgy-cool, fashion forward yet utilitarian. They want rock star, not rock admirer.

Here too I had to re-interpret my own look. I bought (amazing!) black boots that reference the Rolling Stones, a sheer tank-top and tight jeans. I never would wear that to a concert because I looked too good. I don’t want a bunch of dirty emo kids bleeding on my top. But at the interview, I looked the part they wanted, and I got the part, looks wise at least.

At Anthropology, it’s a different scene. It’s not about sweat and metal, it’s about nature and craftsmanship. These two scenes aren’t really as contrasting as they initially sound. They’re both about individuality and distinction. They’re also about creativity and craftsmanship. I can wear the same jewelry for either scenario, it’s all in the paring. I might even be able to wear my Rolling Stones boots.

Fashion is always a balance: color and contrast, hard and soft, slutty and refined. It can always be pushed forward but must similarly be held back. Tomorrow’s outfit must employ a bit of my harder edge but tempered by something pretty, something poised, and something personal. Fashion, just like the people who wear it, is a combination of many components.

Lucky for me, messy hair is a shared trait of boho-pretty and emo-punk. Some things are far too fundamental to disguise.

Retail Therapy

So I’m pretty sure I just got dumped. The reason for the ambiguity is, for the purpose of this blog anyway, irrelevant. Clearly, though, I’m confused. Suddenly something you consider a constant in your life is gone. Just not there. Like an earring you heard hit the floor, but has mysteriously vanished. So now you’re stuck with one earring, and the nagging knowledge that if you just looked a little longer you’d find the missing piece.

Sometimes you do, sometimes you don’t.

In this case, it looks like I’m gonna have to retire this set (read: relationship) even if the missing earring (read: boy) does turn up. It sucks. It’s fine. There are other guys, other relationships, other fashion analogies to be made.

And yet it was with some surprise that yesterday, having gotten in the car for a mind-clearing drive, I found myself in Nordstrom, digging through the sale rack and amassing a humungous pile of distressed blue jeans, discounted blazers, and about seven Splendid tank tops.

The surprise here was, in essence, the surprise itself. “Huh,” I thought in my sleep deprived, disoriented state, “I’m doing retail therapy.”

“Duh,” was my next thought.

If you’re anything like me, then you too use your closet as a reference point. There are very few items whose origin I do not remember, and can trace back to a certain event or point in my life.

I have dresses not just from prom but also from the sorority formal where I met Mark, the Easter spent in Arizona, or bought because I had been photographed too many times in the same casual wear. I also have the blazer I bought with an ex’s unused Ralph Lauren gift certificate, the tank top that gets me in trouble every time I wear it, and the t-shirt I woke up in after a particularly (un)memorable New Year’s.

Your clothes are part of your narrative, sometimes resulting from and sometimes provoking your situation. Your life.

I spent the summer sleeping in Boy’s frat shirt. The one he gave me years ago at a beach week party when my own t-shirt got thrown in the pool, along with the rest of the lawn furniture. The one I buried for years, only to unearth again as a symbol of a redefined commitment, or at lease the theory of one.

But it’s going in the closet again, and the Theory I’m left with now is a lot more formal than my former relationship.

So, I wondered as I stood clutching a paycheck's worth of clothing, what was the item going to be that defined this particular situation? A corporate blazer to express composure? A back-baring club shirt to re-claim freedom? An ostentatious Burberry jacket to coddle a wounded ego?

While the items taunted me, I couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't want these pieces to be reminders of the missing Boy. They deserved better than that, and I honestly don't need any more pretentiousness in my closet, or my life. What I need is to move on.

So I got practical. I got some new basic t-shirts and replaced an old pair of shoes with a practical new set. (Yeah they're Stewart Weiztman. I never said practical meant cheep.)

I did get something else though: a shabby-sheek BCBG sweater I figure will be nice to curl up with while I watch episodes of True Blood and consume glasses of Pinot Grigio. The sweater is full of holes, but it’s really well made and has a fragile elegance to it. I like the sweater almost as much as I like the metaphor.

Packing for Neverland

Tomorrow my little sister is moving to Florida. Needless to say, it’s been quite a production. In addition to the amassing of required beach-wear (her 3 necessities: assorted swimsuits, huge sunglasses, and a small collection of Lily Pulitzer dresses) there’s been the car-stress, furniture-stress, and of course, dress-code-stress. Last night, my mother and I assembled in her room and watched, awe-struck, as a gigantic pile of sparkly, frilly, shiny, and slinky dresses emerged from a space no larger than most people’s coat racks. It seems her years as a Penn State sorority girl were not spent looking dowdy.

But as we delved into the dividing of the dresses, an interesting refrain began to reoccur: “Not that, I’m starting my grown up life.”

“Oh good! Those are my grown up pants!”

“Will I wear that as a grown up?”

Obviously, I’m sympathetic to this anxiety. Anyone with two eyes and Comcast can see the difference between how teenagers dress and how the adults do. In fact, that’s frequently the only distinction between televised teens and their parents, given that the actors’ actual ages are frequently interchangeable. But it’s interesting to try and articulate the precise moment of the switch. When is it that we grow out of our youth?

My sister, at 22, is still wearing her sorority shirts and the short-shorts that go with them. At 26 I use my t-shirts as gym-wear, though tiny shorts are still staples of my summer dress code. Yet over the past couple of seasons there’s been some definitive editing done to my closet. I lost the mid-drift bearing t-shirts, even as they creep back into cultural acceptance. I also ditched the Hard-Tail sweatpants. I’m not 16 and I don’t do yoga, was the rationale. Who am I kidding?

While obvious to me and therefore relatively painless, these cuts indicate that I’ve pretty much (almost) come to terms with the reality of my ‘adult’ life. I don’t really look like a teenager anymore, but I definitely don’t feel like one. My stripes have been earned and are now, frequently, worn. This is something I’m okay with.

My sis isn’t in such a position, however. She’s at the precarious point of anticipating a future which isn’t quite upon her yet. And in my opinion, there’s no point in rushing it. Adulthood isn’t something you fall into any faster than you can fall into your skinny jeans after one day of dieting. It takes time. Experience. Resolution and restraint. And after a while, if you stick with it, you’ll find you can wear it just fine. Comfortably, even.

The difference, of course, is that growing up isn’t a choice. We don’t choose our age any more than we choose our shoe size. But you do get to choose how you age, and what to let go of when. I still wear my Converse on occasion, but I no longer cross into the VS Pink collection. And mini-sis may have chosen to bring a few ‘grown up’ sweaters, but there was no way she was leaving the Barbie heals behind. And why should she? Barbie’s older than both of us and look what she still wears.

Jersey Sure

I’m currently sitting in my house wearing a tube top, sweatpants, and a weird metal crown/ headband thing made out of magnets. I also spray tanned myself to death this morning and plan on doing it again later today. I want to go to the gym. I plan on doing laundry.

I have been watching Jersey Shore.

Unbelievably, even though the show has graced American screens for over two years, I hadn’t seen it until earlier this week. This may seem impossible, but bare in mind: I’ve been in Asia, where the concept of an orange gorilla would be either a terrorist threat or an anime character, not an object of lust. Although I was peripherally aware of the cast and their intoxicated antics, I hadn’t seen the show. Until now.

For reasons of personal pride, I’m not going to disclose exactly how much Jersey Shore I’ve watched over the past week. A lot. Between dog walks and fruitless job searching I’ve squeezed in just enough time with the strangely endearing crew to have begun appropriating their aesthetic. How terrifying is that?

This isn’t the first time I’ve been susceptible to fashion osmosis, of course. I was in Asia for 2 years and when I got home I looked at the sparkly, bedazzled, highly graphic t-shirts I had acquired and realized there was no way in hell I could get away with them this side of the Pacific.

When I started studying at U of R, or The World’s Preppiest University, I enthusiastically embraced an influx of collared shirts and ribbon belts.

It makes sense to adapt ones clothing to one’s situation, especially when you’re trying to assimilate to or be included in a new culture or situation. But why, WHY, am I currently under the spell of a different Situation? There is nothing enviable or appealing about over the top trucker hats or almost-exposed nipples. I have never in my life aspired to smoosh with a juicehead.

But there’s something so enthusiastically cavalier about the cast’s communal behavior that I find myself embracing their fashion choices in an attempt to bring some of that carefree joviality into my own life. I’m not down the shore drinking my face off right now, but damn do I wish I were. And I can’t roll around on the floor in a pile of similarly minded housemates, cause mine are currently scattered across the globe. But I can put on a sparkly tank top, drink a beer, and bear witness to the gleeful frivolity of some nutty individuals, who are actually pretty fun to hang out with.

At least, that is, until I replace my current Situation with a better one.

The Art of Wardrobe

Last night I was the victim of one of the most classic time-wasters in human history: the wardrobe crisis. I spent an hour- a full hour- trying on every combination of clothes in my closet, in my sister’s closet, in the laundry hamper, and even in the give-away-but-aren’t-gone-yet pile. What makes this even more shame inducing is that at the end of it all I left the house in the outfit I had planned on wearing to begin with- the very first one I had on.

While the back-story here explains my excessive neurosis a little bit- I was going to see a old, impressive friend whom I haven’t seen in many years- the cyclical process of what happened in that tortuous hour remains something of a mystery.

What, after all, did I expect to find as I stared into the narrow closet frame? Did I think a top I had somehow forgotten about was going to simply fall from above onto a hanger in front of me? (Actually I did think that, but after a thorough investigation of both the top shelves and floor, I had no such luck).

Did I think there was going to be an outfit combination that my already maxed-out mixing and matching strategies hadn’t come up with? (Well, I tried that too. Let’s just say that layering two stand-alone pieces does not a new dress make).

I even ‘gave up’ twice, ‘throwing on’ expensive jeans, heals and a t-shirt. Alas, it seems I have reached an age where ‘effortlessly cool’ might in fact require some paradoxical effort.

When all is said and done, I think it is a bit of a shame that I was forced to retreat to the original outfit, a perfectly acceptable one, but not one I was excited about or empowered by. As a person who leans on their closet for emotional support, this was a bit of a let down.

Even worse, though, was the fact that all of this anal assessment made me an hour late to a party with amazing people who without question didn’t spend half the time I did thinking about their outfits, or thinking about mine.

Perhaps, if I had suddenly suffered a stroke of genius and a brand new excellent ensemble had come to mind this would be a different essay. As that is not the case, I am left with a mantra I will be repeating to myself the next time insecurity strikes: trust your instincts and get out the door. The reason you care about what you wear is so that you can feel good while you live your life, but living life should be the priority.

The worst kind of fashion victim is she who is debilitated by it. Remember: the closet is not a crutch.