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.