A long time ago, at least as it was in the blogosphere, a debate arose as to whether or not bloggers should post photos of themselves in ordinary ensembles, ones that were particularly special, imaginative, or exciting. At the time I had mixed thoughts on the matter. While I was definitely utilizing my blog as liquid courage to push the envelope* for dressing, if my blog was, in theory, representative of my life, and what I was, in turn, wearing, then wouldn’t it be a misrepresentation to avoid sharing the more average days? If in fact they did exist? I thought so, but apparently I was in the minority, the voice of dissention amidst a sea of graphic designers, stay-at-home moms, and professionals. Nowadays, bloggers are more than thrilled to share their bare faces, off days, and glammed up versions of jeans and t-shirts, but in 2010 that was most definitely not the norm. I do suppose, however, that not wanting to share these mundane moments is part of why I post with such annoying infrequency**. During my last trip home, something occurred to me—I actually like dressing like a slob. Okay, that may be a little harsh. I’m not really a slob—I’m not dirrrty, my articles of clothing are the proper sizes, and I do manage to look put together, but I definitely find comfort and confidence in simple outfits that may be a little on the unfashionable side. Exhibit A, to your left, is the ensemble that shifted everything in perspective for me. My family was going out for Sunday dinner at our favorite Pan Asian restaurant (though let’s just call it what it is, Chinese food) and torn jeans, slubby t-shirt, and my Birkenstocks were all I wanted to wear. While I used to think that this gravitation toward the unfashionable while being at home, in suburban Rhode Island, was a result of living in Manhattan, and always feeling “on,” I’ve been thinking more and more lately that this isn’t actually the most accurate reasoning. I think it’s just more exemplary of who I am, or perhaps, the moment that I’m in right now. Though I was always interested in/fascinated by fashion, I always saw myself apart from “it all.” This all changed when I got to college and vigorously refused to be another liberal arts student with clogs, unwashed hair, skinny jeans, ironic vintage, or tie dye—the bizarre amalgamation of hippie and hipster that my alma mater so masterfully represents. To that end, I cultivated a professional, yet fun wardrobe that I felt set me aside from my classmates. And it did. There was a time when I wouldn’t even wear my Uggs to get the mail or take my dog to shit, but now I shamelessly hop over to Panera in them, while also donning sweatpants and old concert shirts. I die when I think of the fabulous outfit I wore to my graduation. With my frosted lips, silver and turquoise brocade frock, and killer attitude, I felt like Liz Taylor as I crossed the stage, just without any of that personal drama. So now, why do I find myself in such a different place, and only two years later? Has the professional world hardened me to dressing up? Do I not care anymore? Or even worse, is this who I really am? Right now, the future is just so unclear.
*or so I thought I was, c’mon, it’s all relative!