HE SAID:
I imagine your clothes are somewhat organized in a dresser.
Socks team up in this drawer, shirts stack in that drawer and pants layer like lasagna in another.
Well I haven’t used that last slot all winter. Rest assured I’ve donned pants, but I own just a single pair of jeans. When I discovered the Levi’s 511 fit, I was sold — once, specifically. I’ve faithfully sported the “worn grey” slacks every day. Overnight they collapse onto my carpet; why pack them away if their legs will be my first steps out of bed?
“Ew,” you might think. Lay off. I wash them — every few-ish weeks (during which I wear shorts). But come on, denim is the fallen hamburger you give the 10-second rule to, except you multiply it by a couple hundred thousand. Ladies aren’t checking out my sunken backside anyway, so variety doesn’t seem important.
But I’ve come to realize most all my apparel is stale. While some people have decorative candles or pillows, I have decorative clothing; I wear a fraction of what (little) I own.
Cartoon-great Doug Funny apparently inspired my closet. His many hangers held identical green sweaters and khaki shorts. I have a flannel shirt series of a similar vein, and I’m ignorant to the other items, one of which I’m pretty sure is a women’s polo.
During warm months, I forgo graphics for revolving white T-shirts. A “style change” is switching out crew necks for V-necks, and both come in economical packs of five.
Only recently did I retire a pair of shoes I wore exclusively for 15 months (I found the duct-taped toe a nice accent).
Such minimalism — or maybe laziness — isn’t readily mocked in the collegiate context. Conversely, I’m guilty of scoffing at those who spend more than 90 seconds on an outfit. Regardless, our central purpose is to absorb some knowledge, and there isn’t a dress code for note taking. You’ve likely seen some unique pajamas in Virginia Tech classrooms, and that’s entirely normal.
Yet, gear that’s heavily recycled can unconsciously make you feel similarly deteriorated. The relentless pattern of school already strains your enthusiasm, and an uninspired wardrobe encourages your slouching, disinterested posture a bit more. While an upturned sweatshirt hood might yield concentration for some, it’s a portal for escapism for many others.
A victim of such daydreaming myself, I tried to combat the tendency last week for an exam.
That Wednesday morning I slid into a hand-me-down button-up shirt and popped on a vest honoring Mr. Funny. Needless to say, I crushed the test. And I’m not suggesting a crisp collar is a magical injection of IQ steroids; I applied myself to the material. But I do think it affected my mindset, squelched my nerves. Atop a mental grasp of the content, my clothing reinforced: I own you, short answer questions.
As one of my friends prepared to graduate last year, he interviewed with several potential employers over the phone. For each chat he dressed in a shirt and tie to model a professional demeanor. (I think he sat at his bedroom desk with only boxers on underneath.) He was hired, and maybe the tie — or the dollar signs on the skivvies — somehow influenced that outcome.
If anything, these tactics are a taste of the future. Most internships or full-time jobs expect decent attire with a hint of diversity. Your “drinking town with a football problem” T-shirt had a good run, but it’ll soon meet the shelf — or just make it the base layer of formal pinstripes (Bonus: Remove and you’re ready for happy hour.)
Considering my favorite top is classified as underwear by most establishments, it’s about time I explore aisles with more assorted brands than Hanes and Fruit of the Loom — it’s unsettling that I pass male thongs to find the core of my summer gear.
And people call my yellow sneakers bananas; another pair that doesn’t look like it has grocery store origins might be worthwhile.
My first step, though, should be more trousers. I see a little hummus residue on one thigh. Oh, and a spot of gum from the underside of a McBryde desk.
At this point I’m more representative of a trashcan than a thrifty student.
SHE SAID:
Sometimes, I wish I were a tattoo artist.
Like the dark star of “L.A. Ink,” Kat Von D, my job would allow me to be coated in art, eye-popping shades of makeup and astonishing amounts of leather.
But time, and an encroaching sense of professionalism, has dashed my dreams of becoming a punk princess.
Instead, my stint as a secretary has slowly conditioned me to be less like Kat Von D and more like Pam Beesley in earlier seasons of “The Office.”
Five years ago, I would have been shopping for that perfect pair of sleek Doc Martens boots. Now, you’re more likely to find me in the mall in pursuit of a cardigan that will add some color to my otherwise lackluster office attire.
But I hadn’t anticipated this change.
Had you asked the 18-year-old mohawked me, I would’ve guffawed at the idea of “business casual” and instead shown you a ratty, black T-shirt of some relatively obscure band.
Trust me — sinister Laken never thought that she’d actually have to “grow up.” But honestly, it was less of “growing up” and more of “growing out.”
When we were younger, we could get away with anything — anything.
For example, one of my best friends, Jeff, tried desperately to grow a mullet on the principle of hideousness. Jeff’s alopecia prevented him from achieving said mullet, but instead he grew a tangle of long, thin hairs that slumped on the top of his head like a depressed parakeet.
The last time I visited Jeff years after he had the “cotton-candy updo,” he asked me to cut his hair because he had no desire to relive his redneck past.
Of course, the same goes for clothes. Ladies, have you ever really, truly looked at your Ugg boots? They might look precious now, but when you’re older, you’ll realize you spent your better years wearing what is essentially a leather sock.
I don’t tell you this out of meanness. I tell you this out of experience.
Like Jeff’s hair fiasco, I went out of my way to be ugly. To the world, I proclaimed it was because I was an individual. In reality, it was because I had no money. Ugly clothes are cheap.
In the winter, I would wear a hulking, stinky, patchwork coat with a giant shearing collar that was left over from my family’s leather factory. I’d Frankenstein my old clothes together with safety pins and band buttons. Gaudy-colored shoes went with every outfit. I’d use drab thrift store ties as hair bands and often took whatever articles of clothing somebody had forgotten on campus, whether it was a single glove or a puke-colored hat. And almost everything I owned was encrusted with my obsession: skulls. Even the nose stud I scored on sale was a skull that I nicknamed “Boney.”
So maybe I did the best I could while being thrifty. Maybe I was just youthfully expressing myself through clothing.
But now, I look back at my pictures and wonder why somebody didn’t take pity and send me to Stacy and Clinton of “What Not to Wear.”
Now that I’ve entered into the realm of “the young professional,” I can’t be quite so avant-garde. Making money is also a huge incentive to look presentable. My working attire now consists of camisoles, cardigans, sweaters, dress pants and plain flats. When I’m feeling casual, it’s skinny jeans, a zip-up hoodie and a pair of Chucks.
My punky past still springs up now and again. I still paint my nails black, and long for loads of dark eyeliner. In the mall, I still ogle the lacey tank tops in Hot Topic. And no matter how hard I try; I can’t rid my wardrobe of all the different pairs of Chucks I own, even if I have multiple pairs of the same color.
Even though I might not be able to be a scene kid anymore, I really don’t mind growing up and looking more like Pam Beesley from “The Office.” She has Jim Halpert, didn’t she?
That’s enough to assure me that maybe — just maybe — I’m on the right track.