Because It’s Thursday
And maybe you don’t know what to wear
I have this theory. And maybe what I’m doing is essentially piggybacking off of yesterday’s desperate plea (delicately masqueraded as outgoing advice) for help conceptualizing an easy dressing routine. One that doth not include my blankly staring into a full closet, wondering what to wear.
Or maybe it’s not.
There’s this idea floating through an abyss that intersects at style and existentialism which mandates that when you’ve become wholly comfortable in your own skin, with who you are and essentially too, who you want to be, you get stuck in your style. Or maybe stuck isn’t the proper word–it indicates a note of entrapment and in this instance, I’m not sure we’re bound by those dreadful lines of demarcation. We’re just comfortable and as a result, inevitably drawn to the window we’ve cultivated in tandem with that enlightenment of sorts.
Make sense? Not really? Okay. When I was 21, I bought a pair of ripped denim cut-offs by Levi’s, a utility jacket from Urban Outfitters and used an old muscle tee from Topshop (to cloak my mammaries under the jacket). I wore the described outfit precisely 78 times (dramatization, I have no idea the actual number but it was frequent) through the duration of that summer. Now in 2013, for some reason or another, when I cite The Summer of The Utility Jacket (which, mind you, is often–several unilateral monuments materialized during that three month stint), I recall a foreign sense of ease that denoted an absolute sense of me. And at the risk of turning this into an earnest style story about the way in which it truly is a window into our souls, wah wah wah, I will just say that it’s hard to detach the tangible, external materials that have helped cultivate that idea from the idea itself.
Conclusion: on Thursday, April 25, I probably just needed to take a well-suited shot of me.
And because you may not know what to wear, I urge you to think back into the trenches of your bank of mental objects and remember what you were wearing when you felt most yourself. My disclaimer is that I might come back next week in a diaper and nothing else to explain to you that the real truths of my identity unfolded when I still maintained the ability to shit myself and receive acclaim based on that accord.