My Fashion Faux Pause

In high school I found two outlets for my self-expression. First, I wrote painful poetry with titles such as “Bereft” and “Desolate.” Inspiration would strike me suddenly, and I would fall to the floor amid the current of students and scrawl stanzas that captured my deepest teenage emotions. I spent most of two years in geometry and algebra II facing backwards in the classroom (or out in the hallway) filling the pages of my notebooks—no wonder I didn’t become a mathematician or chemist; thanks Mr. Gilbert and Mrs. Poor! The second manifestation of my budding independent spirit and requisite rebellion against my parents, the hallmark of my teenage persona, was my choice in attire. Many who know me today would be surprised to know that, once upon a time, I put a great deal of thought into my personal fashion (and it didn’t involve even one collared polo). It may be interesting to further note, if you’ll allow me to digress, that prior to high school I had embraced two other distinctive (read: no one else did this) trends. In fourth grade, I wore full camouflage on nearly a daily basis. In seventh grade I got a very frizzy home perm and wore an ensemble of matching stretch pants; puffy-paint, mirror-sequined tops; and white turtlenecks. I also encouraged my little brother around this time to get a rat tail and lines shaved into the sides of his hair. Hott!

As 1994 rolled around, I immersed myself in the new fashion wave sweeping across the country: grunge. I became known for wearing flannel over-shirts and, in particular, a dingy yellow corduroy jacket a la Kurt Cobain. I also experimented with wild hair colors, overalls, combat boots, 70s sweaters lifted from my deceased grandfather’s closet, and bright laces in my doodle-ridden Chuck Taylors. I carried a messenger-style knapsack from the army surplus store on which I had drawn an image of the earth and the words “World Peace.” My clothes were a clear warning: “High-voltage angst. Keep back.” Surprisingly, there were very few of us who committed fully to this style, so it definitely garnered the attention I suppose we were all secretly hoping it would. There was a bit of competition and in-fighting among the “grungy” of Emerald High who were vying for the top spot in ultimate eccentricity. I once got into an argument with an upper-classman over which one of us had switched to neon laces first. It was the same, I guess, as other girls’ anxiety over procuring an exclusive, one-of-a-kind purse or prom dress, except…not. This fashion statement served me well for the few years I needed it, but thank jeeves I did get out before it mutated into full-blown Goth.

I think now, a decade later, I may be suffering from some form of fashion ptsd. Aside from the true aversion I have to “dressing up,” which has persisted since I was a small child, I become intensely nervous whenever anyone comments on my clothing. I shrug and throw up the international “I don’t know” hand signal when someone says they like my shirt/pants/shoes. “Oh, cute hair cut” throws me into a tail spin, gives me hives. I mutter incoherently. I guess I’m just bashful that way. My signature style these days is the casual comfort of jeans and polos in the summer, jeans and sweaters in the winter. Crocs, Crocs, and more Crocs, although I did recently make the leap to Dansko clogs for work. I have two pairs of dress slacks that I probably wear twice a year with a button-up shirt (un-tucked). There are no aberrant colors, patterns, logos, or rips hanging in my closet any longer. I draw as little attention in this regard as possible, sort of like overcorrective steering that has landed me in a muddy, fashionless ditch on the opposite side of the road.

Officemates have offered lucrative bribes to see me in a dress or in heels, or even just a little lipstick. I, of course, jovially demur whenever they mention it. I like to keep it simple and non-descript these days, as vanilla as possible (vanilla may be too kind a word), and let my innate eccentricities manifest in areas apart from my apparel. Except, now that I think about it, I really wouldn’t mind having that puke-yellow corduroy jacket back. It was my constant companion in a former life, a security blanket of sorts that I eventually had to remit to the universe in exchange for adulthood. If I had it today, though, I’d sneak off somewhere, slide my arms through the silky lining of the sleeves, pull my hair out over the collar, run my hands over the soft cords to smooth it out in front. I would wrap up in it just for a moment, at ease in familiar skin.