I used to really love fashion. When Cope and I met during college, my room was decorated on the cheap with a picture rail of haute couture ads torn from Vogue and Bazaar. Hazy memories suggest I once followed and even embraced trends as a whimsical way to mark the passage of time. Like a friend recently said about herself, I used to dress as a way of letting people know that I was interesting, relevant, worth talking to.
Cope used to talk about those pictures as one of the things he found intriguing about me in the early days, before we knew each other well. It’s a good thing we did get to know each other, because hoooo-boy did those ads turn out to be false advertising for my typical way of life.
Seventeen years later. It’s November, 2014. 7:15 on a school morning. I’m only three sips deep into my sacred morning coffee. Standing in front of my closet. Perusing my clothing options. Is there something called a morbid giggle? There should be.
I realized I was looking not at a wardrobe but at a uniform. And not a cute Catholic schoolgirl uniform or a classy Singapore Airlines flight attendant one. Nope, just an endless cycle of Levi’s Bold Curve trousers (jeans in three washes and two pairs of corduroys), Old Navy Perfect Fit tank tops and 3/4-sleeve cardigans. All of them washed practically to oblivion, converging from their original rainbow of colors onto the same dull shade of “Meh, everyone’s mostly focused on the kids anyway.” View full post »