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.