If I were to write a poem about clothes I’d offer you some gag worthy stanzas about how every stitch, every embellishment, every drape of fabric in some horribly, metaphorical way, represents a part of me.
Perhaps this is a bit dramatic, ridiculous, but since I am IN NO WAY WHATSOEVER DRAMATIC OR RIDICULOUS, take me seriously. I’m kidding, I love clothes, I truly do, but I wouldn’t necessarily rely my entire being on the act of wearing them. HOWEVER no one is stopping me, so I will.
To some people, to a lot of people (and I mean this in no judgmental way, more so observation) clothes are an area of absolute confusion and annoyance. Lots of “I wish” or “I dress for comfort” or “I REALLY just don’t understand clothes” float around, and in this case, clothes may not be a reflection of you, as that may be not what you intend clothes to be. For me, however, clothes have served, for nearly all of my life thus far, as some external confidence I could never truly replicate or accept in my brain.
I, by accident really, stopped buying clothes at commercial stores within the last year. the literal only exception happens to be the outfit I’m wearing right now, a reflection of my weakness when it comes to sales. “Why?” You ask. OH WHY RILEY, would you ever pass up the blood pumping excitement of walking around the mall. WHY would you pass up the opportunity to buy a chic article of clothing that will most definitely rip to shreds in two weeks. WHY don’t you guiltlessly shop around the mall as if it were 2005 and you have absolutely NO clue about the exploitation of workers, you just gotta get your ass into some low rise bell bottom jeans. WHY don’t you support huge cooperations which ruthlessly steal the work of independent artists?
Honestly…I’m not sure, that all sounds pretty good to me!
Moral is I’m far too aware and guilty and also angry to not put my *limited* money where my mouth is. And also thrifted clothes are cheaper and WAY more fun. My corny ass gets all emotional about the idea that some 90s teenager or some 80 year old grandmother owned what I may be wearing. It’s a game, an adventure to walk into a store full of dumpy looking clothes and turn them into something wearable.
And now I regress from my glorified “wokeness” into why I really took the time out of my exhausting day of being a dog sitter to a geriatric Yorkie to write this.
I admit 2018 wasn’t the best year of my life, I spent the last chunk of it being sad about my minuscule teenage girl problems. I also started the year with a breakup, somewhere in the middle lost a loved one, quit one of my beloved jobs, the only seemingly stable part of my life, and pretty much spent every waking moment riddled with the notion that the world will end due to our careless neglect for the environment. FUN! Nonetheless I’ve also made puppets, decided that being “serious” and “sad” online is not nearly as fun as being humorous and sarcastic, ONLY listen to PUNK and PSYCHOBILLY, and ROCK (ok I’m kidding but I do prefer such genres because I am now a 40-year-old father), I’ve also read some books this year AND enjoyed them which I haven’t done since I was in…LIKE..middle school.
BUT the best and most important thing I have done this year is made it a daily routine to post my outfits on my Instagram story. Cool right? Ya I know. My informal deliverance of my daily dress (ya, I know) has seemingly made me get out of bed in the morning. Although these videos have faced some confusion, including the question if I’m on DRUGS, (no I just like to have fun you boring motherfuckers) the general population of my humble following seems to appreciate my DARING and HEROIC display of my personal style.
The more I post, the less I care, I laugh a little at what some may think, while knowing full well others swipe through the stories aimlessly, not giving a fuck about what I’m wearing and/or saying, and that is comforting. Because at the end of the day clothes are for you. For me, they’re an invitation and a warning sign. They say HEY to my potential friends and warn the ‘others’.
All in all, I’m more than certain my 7-year-old self would be floored and delighted that despite the bleak and meaningless journey into adulthood, I have remained tasteless and tacky and absolutely, no matter the situation, set on looking how I damn please.