Baggy, stretchy, soft.
To be fair, I love fashion as an art form. If I shat money, I would buy every pair of Kobi Levis ever made and then I would strut around my kitchen in them and then I would spill marinara all over them and cry but don’t worry because I drink coffee and so I’d just shit myself to another pair ok this sentence is over.
I’ve had some wines.
For years, I was the gal who wore crazy stilettos, an entire outfit carefully stapled together from every sample sale across the country, and zero fucks for what anyone thought about any of it.
The only thing I’ve retained is the zero fucks part. (And even that was a struggle, for awhile.) I still love my heels and my fancy whatevers, but wearing any of it feels like a lie. I’m…I’m a pjs and couch time sort of person. Always have been. My fancy self lasts about two hours and then I need to axe murder people because they breathe too loudly and also have not brought me fried food. Seriously, fuck company that darth vaders into your life with zero mozzarella sticks and a bewildered deerfucked face.
My crash and burn from fashion was harsh, though. I mean…the stiletto me wore serious fashionly bonanza all. the. time. My pjs were fucking high end couture. I once spent three hours (HOURS) obsessing over what color trouser socks I wanted to order off some froo froo site that then told me they don’t do sales because they don’t believe in ‘the mentality behind discount couture’. YEAH. Hi. (I mean, I kind of hear what they’re saying. Still, though. Fuck a pair of $83 nylons. in the ear. with a cactus.)
I woke up one morning and hated every single piece of fabric I owned. Not in a ‘omg i have nothing to wear!!’ sort of way; in a ‘I would go to work in a literal duvet if I wasn’t convinced I’d be both fired and arrested in under five minutes’ sort of way. I thought it was a phase. I waited for it to pass.
In the meantime, I was faced with a closet of advanced fashion choices, and saddled with a brain that got belligerent at the idea of pants with actual hardware anywhere on them. I think I spent a couple weeks rotating off my one sweatsuit that did not look like cat vomit and a baggy t shirt dress that looked only vaguely like cat vomit. I mourned the loss of my fashion self. I used to wear some beautiful shit. It was fun. It was gorgeous. Finding those items was a kind of skill, because (I’m guessing, after observing how high end fashion is priced) rich folks think sales are pointless and don’t understand what a ‘good deal’ means (hint: it’s not something that is still $50, even if it’s after 85% off, and particularly when that something is a fucking ribbed cotton puce green tank top what the actual most basic fuck) and because, when you get good at knowing where to look, the addiction sets in and there’s a whole chemical release when you get lucky.
I have finally emerged, though. Yes. I am back to my unabashed fuck-free self, only upgraded to leggings and tunics and flats. FLATS. I’m ok with being merely ‘fashion-capable’. I thought I wasn’t; I was mad that I was old or tired or boring, but the truth is that I am comfortable. I envy folks that are comfy in the fancy stuff; I never was. I love it, but it’s not me. I spend so much of my life actively seeking uncomfortable places in music, in writing, in relationships, that I didn’t realize how much I needed for my body to be not on that list of things that feel awkwardly stretched. I think, maybe, I thought that if I wasn’t presenting myself like the artwork I felt that day, then I wasn’t being honest.
I didn’t realize that the artwork I feel is not in what I wear; it is in who I am. That day, any day, whatever minute. My utter me.
But, I’m on it, now. Leggings and all. I’m ready.