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.