I don’t know what to wear.
Actually, that’s not true. I know exactly what to wear, which is kind of freaking me out. I’ve pared my wardrobe down so much that there’s not a lot of options. There’s the three tank tops I wear as a varying rotation, the two pairs of black jeans that got me through the greater part of the winter, black boots, beat up white sneakers. None of this is interesting, none of this is groundbreaking. I’ve started to feel a sense of imposture syndrome when I tell people I work in fashion, because I wear the same thing almost every day.
The uniform is, of course, a well documented phenomenon within the fashion (and other) industries. Karl Lagerfeld had one. Anna Wintour has one. Zuckerberg’s grey tee shirt, Steve Job’s turtleneck, all are iconic styles and clothing choices that the viewer has no choice but to connect back to the icon they pertain to, the person they almost, in a way, belong to.
For years I’ve looked for pieces that stand the test of time, that feel authentically me and are always great to put on. But now that I have them, they’re almost too comfortable, the sartorial equivlant of a relationship where all you do is stay in and watch netflix in pajamas.
But now whenever I go shopping I’m caught up on the practicality of things. I want clothes I can be comfortable in all day, in classes and coffee shops and sitting on the floor of a dorm room. Clothes that can be for winter and summer. I’m asking a lot (too much?) from my wardrobe, and it’s gotten me stuck in a place where I’m satisfied, but not content with the contents of my wardrobe.
This is, of course, coming from a space of tremendous maximalism. I have a lot of clothes- just ask my mother. But somewhere between the packing for college and growing up and laundry cycle I’ve stopped reaching for much outside of my core pieces. And in stepping away from variety, into simplicity, I’ve somehow ended up at blandness, a place I never wanted to be.
I don’t think the answer necessarily lies in a shopping spree. The whole fixing oneself before taking on more thing feels appropriate here. Plus, my stylistic apathy has extended to shopping. I’m no more able to pick up a sweater in a store without examining its fabric composition than I am able to abstain from wearing black jeans four times a week.
So here’s my prescribed style diet: discomfort. Not in the tortuous sense of high heels or jeans that dig in at the hips. But clothing that isn’t quite so easy, clothing that takes a little longer to style. I want to bring the intentionality back to my style.
Tomorrow’s look? Red ankle boots. It’s time they came back.