Mattie brought up an interesting point last week with her story, It’s Not You, It’s Me.
We’re all familiar with that curious drop-off that occurs at some unwitting point during our relationships with fashion items we’ve deemed indelibly lovable. You love it, you love it, you love it, you can’t live without it so much so that you’re contemplating purchasing another and then bam! — like with an avocado in the process over-ripening, it goes bad and you want nothing to do with what once was the capstone of your closet.
Why this happens, I don’t know, but we can cogitate. One possible reason could be tethered to our perpetually-at-fault menstruation cycles. Why? Because the decline in amiability certainly denotes a change of heart and in mood and who knows about that shift better than a bleeding woman, am I right? I suppose the thing is, once the hormone agita subsides and that grumpiness goes away, we’re ourselves again.
So…okay, never mind! Bye!
Another, more substantial case could be made for the extrinsic variables that affect the ways we interact with our stuff. I was meeting Amelia, for example, at a restaurant in NoHo for lunch last fall dressed in a pair of yellow Acne slouchy jeans, a beige t-shirt, dirty white tennis sneakers and an ankle length, double-breasted trench coat. When I left home I felt paradoxically Americana in the same effortless European way that Lauren Hutton or Katharine Hepburn do. When I sat down for lunch, Amelia agreed that I’d done something good with my pairing du jour but for a profoundly different reason.
“You kind of look like this girl from New England who rides at my barn,” she told me, placing a 100 dollar bill in the Douche Bag Jar and that was it.
That ruined the whole thing for me — almost instantaneously I metamorphosed from American done the Euro-way to polished white girl with hypothetical berets in hair.
Don’t get me wrong, though. New England seems fantastic, the people from New England even better, but when the aspired-for-intentions of my outfit (the disconnects! The grime of Bowery! The spirit of a Ralph Lauren renegade!) not only get lost on someone but get lost on someone who is supposed to get me all the time, do those initial intentions even matter anymore?
Sometimes, the ruining factor occurs more acutely. You could love a handbag you’ve spent your life savings on because you knew it would be forever and in just one fashion week season, find yourself so comprehensively turned off because of its over-saturation as told by an avalanche of street style images. Conversely, your best friend might tell you that your favorite [insert item here] makes you look like a. a member of The Real Housewives of any city, b. King Joffrey from Game of Thrones or c. Heidi Montag. Or maybe I’m completely wrong. Stop me while I’m ahead and let me know: what ruined It for you?