On any given day, my outfit consists of roughly 80% gifts and hand-me-downs. My wardrobe’s main sources are my mother-in-law’s well-kept, decades-spanning closet, my stepmother-in-law’s adorable jackets and sweaters that “come down to here” on her, my mother’s eye for cute things and unhesitating willingness to open her wallet for her kids, and my husband’s preternatural ability to bring home perfectly fitting shoes, blouses, skirts, dresses, and even pants, yes, pants, from the thrift store.
Naturally, I am quite grateful for these bountiful clothing streams. Not only have I presumably saved hundreds if not thousands of dollars over the past decade, I haven’t had to spend untold hours in dressing rooms trying on jeans that never had any intention of clearing my thighs.
Every once in a while, however, I start to worry that I’m copping out. I feel guilty for passively allowing outside forces to determine how I present myself to the world. I’m thirty-four. Shouldn’t I be able to dress myself? What is my style, anyway? To illustrate this internal conflict more vividly, I’ll tell you that there are two versions of my bitmoji self: the way I wish I dressed and the way I actually dress. One is rather preppy and one is quite grungy. You’ll just have to guess which is which.
I am aware that this anxiety is likely driven by the fashion industry’s narrow and highly profitable definition of self-actualization, but it’s still tough to shake. (It might be easier to shake if I quit Queer Eye, but back off, buster!) That choosing my own clothing symbolizes a greater, deeper truth about myself is an alluring idea. It’s a sign of participating, or not, in one’s own life.
A few weeks ago, as I was getting dressed for absolutely no reason, it occurred to me that my inherited collection of garments actually speaks volumes about me. Whenever I put on a shirt or a dress or a pair of earrings or shoes that was given to me by someone else, I think about that person, sometimes for a minute, sometimes for half a second. Their face flashes through my mind, I think about the circumstances under which the item was given to me, I smile when I hear their voice telling me about its history, its meaning. My clothing tells me about the people in this world who love me, and those people are my story.
I just read on Facebook last night that the woman who gave me my favorite pair of earrings over a decade ago has recently died. She was the mother of a fellow musician in my youth orchestra, and she was always extremely helpful to my mom, the orchestra’s manager. She had a sharp wit and a big heart. When I was away at college, she often recommended that I adopt a Siamese cat (in her mind, the best kind of pet) to get me through some difficulties I was facing. Upon hearing that I’d pierced my ears, she immediately sent me a pair of dangly pearl earrings that her daughter had made. They are dainty and delicate and light as a feather, and I’ve worn them regularly since 2008. In fact, I’m wearing them today.
Here’s to you, Klari. I’m thinking about you for more than a minute on this beautiful, rainy day.
