your clothes are meant to be wrinkled

and you should dress how you live

those who don’t know me well think that i am Type A, those who do know me well think i am Type B; realistically, i am somewhere happily floating in the middle. from an outside perspective, i suppose it could seem that i “have it together” i am am unwaveringly ambitious, my apartment is intentionally tidy, i consistently workout without thinking about it, i text my mom enthusiastically and often, and i start sweating if i am more than 5 minutes late to anything. but there is another part of me that i find saying things like, “nothing in life is ever reaaaaaallllllllyyyy that serious, it will be fineeeeee” and “i mean, i would go out tonight…” and “if they’re giving out free belly button piercings…i would get one.” i am constantly saying yes to things even if it costs me sleep because i rely on my passionate stamina to get me through anything. i get tattoos somewhat recklessly much because i relish in my ability to change something in my life permanently, in an instant. it’s as if i have a cartoon angel and a devil chatting on my shoulder deciding who gets to win the battle of self-preservation today. i notice that these opposing idiosyncrasies of mine are often reflected in my clothing. i tend to dress in a way that is objectively pretty glamorous, yet i feel my fingers twitch if i look too put together. as a result, my voluminous skirts and dresses are usually wrinkled, my t-shirts are at least three sizes too big, and my ankle socks slouch in a way that make me feel more relaxed. i cannot imagine partaking in clothing rental services because i feel so drawn to the wrinkles, creases and stains in my clothes which feel as alive as a deep breath.

i’ll never forget when i sitting at my desk one day and a colleague floated by me in the most gorgeous white lace dress and flip flops. i complimented her dress immediately and she replied, “thanks! it is my wedding dress!” i audibly gasped and stood there for a full minute in awe of her effortless understanding of herself. i have grown up constantly surrounded by people who treat their weddings as if they were a royal coronation. admittedly, i feel uncomfortable in conversations tinged with manic anxiety about custom cocktail napkins and save the date invitations because i have never understood the need to funnel displeasure into moments designed to celebrate love. i think a lot about the the hours we spend steaming our clothes to make them look as if they were brand new, only for them to end up getting charmingly wrinkled through warm embraces and convivial splashes of red wine. i notice that i am more relaxed among women who seem comfortably unaware of what the back of their head looks like, and more attracted to a man in a wrinkly button-down or t-shirt. when i go to museums i find myself magnetized by paintings that have an incomprehensible technical ability to depict the tension of a woman's wrinkled dress through paint, grateful to the artist’s commitment to capture what is front of them as opposed to smoothing out reality.

the other weekend i was desperately trying to come up with a new outfit for a saturday night and was searching through the dregs of my closet. in the very back, i pulled out a pair of light brown suede chloè mules i bought in 9th grade at a barney’s outlet store (RIP) which caused me to overdraft my bank account for the very first time. i hardly ever wear them because of the preciousness of the suede and in that moment i felt embarrassed to have gone to such lengths to keep them looking pristine. i slipped them on and click clacked out the door into a night that consisted of a torrential rain storm, a birthday party where someone dropped a open can of beer on my foot, and a dj set where glitter floated down from the ceiling. the end of the night my shoes had scuffs and signs of wear which made me exhale because they now finally felt like mine. it’s ironic to me that we treat our lives with such delicacy that we end up not actually soaking in the purity of a moment. our clothes are meant to be lived in and wrinkled the same way i believe our faces should have laugh lines and our stomachs should have creases. my hair will always be a little messy, my eyebrows will be a bit overgrown, and my clothes will look like they’re mine because they are. i plan on one day re-wearing my wrinkled wedding dress and encouraging my kids to freely roll around in the grass and dirt allowing their clothes be canvases for their play.*

perhaps my inclination towards sartorial imperfection is a byproduct of the curated perfection i am flooded with on my phone (a flood of my own making, mind you). maybe it is derived from my belief that “coolness” has less to do with what you wear and more about how you wear it (also being unrelentingly kind and empathetic, meaning the words you say, understanding what you like etc. etc. etc.) above all else, i hope when a stranger looks at me they can immediately tell i am the type of person who would gladly lie on the floor and play with a little kid no matter what i am wearing. i hope the joy i have for my life is reflective in the wrinkles i can’t be bothered to steam because they’ll just come back through the way my body moves when i animatedly tell a story. i hope we all can exhale a little bit because to truly live is to look like the wrinkles in our clothes.

* my fictitious wedding dress and children, obviously

i really loved writing this… i find that i enjoy writing about clothing and how/why we get dress but in a way that feels applicable to anybody’s taste and is less about buying stuff... because we don’t need more stuff !!!! obviously !!!!! hopefully you enjoy reading it.

my homework for you this summer is to spend it in an oversized t-shirt eating obnoxiously giant tomatoes and unctuous peaches and tart cherries without worrying about the wrinkles in your clothes and to tell people when you are thinking about them.

thank you !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

xx