It’s a stereotype that women’s wardrobes are all extravagant, expensive, expansive and Electric-Circus-inspired.
That is not the case for every human who identifies as female. If I had to describe MY fashion sense in four words I would say it’s “Super Caj Funeral Wear”, “Holes in All Sweaters” or “Elementary School Child Applicable.” I have never been a gal who puts a heck of a lot of thought into the material that covers her torso and keeps her limbs in a non-pneumonia state. I haven’t spent more than $150.00 on any item of clothing (and that $150.00 was a winter coat that I have owned for five years and I’m hoping to wear in my coffin ‘cause it would fit that party well).
It’s not like I consciously wear tear-away pants, a sombrero and Nike sweat wristbands to job interviews but I have unconsciously worn a pair of dress pants with a massive rip across the surrounding ass area. And let me tell you, it was a delightful surprise to discover hours later after returning home! Thanks to said job-ruining pantaloons, my turtle print underpants were visible to the world at large. I will always be remembered by those interviewers as “the woman who liked to air out her anus whenever possible,” and airing out one’s anus does not a career make.
I am not stylistically blind in the sense that I close my eyes and feel whatever fabric is givin’ off the raddest vibes. I do attempt to not resemble my mother in the 80’s. I look at myself in a reflective surface before exiting the house and if I could be mistaken for a toddler, I reevaluate my choices, in regards to the outfit and life in general.
But typically, I’m all “No guacamole evident on these fabrics? Goooooddd to goooooo.” As long as it keeps my blood flowin’ and hides my food-dropping flaws, I’m a-okay. But again, to clarify, I’m not totally ignorant to the benefits of matter being draped against other matter in an aesthetically pleasing manner. I have tried to be stylish at points but then have fallen back into not-hot habits. And along the way I have picked up a few prized possessions that any 12-year-old would die to have/definitely already has. Including:
Period stained jeans
I’m genuinely sad to say that I gave away my last crimson-stained pair of white jeans years ago but I have multiple duo teams of black and blue denim that have been marked with the visit of Aunt Flo. When I wear ‘em I feel real damn nostalgic and it takes me right back to the days of forgetting to use feminine care products (AKA yesterday).
Zero matching socks
Because I don’t follow trends and I’m a unique flower who wears only the socks of ex-boyfriends past. The harsh black ones with the blue stripe were Mark. The white sporty Adidas ones were Ian. And the kind, tender fleece babies were Steve. It’s like taking a tour through my dating history whenever I crack open the sock drawer. Some people might feel uncomfortable wearing articles of clothing that belong to exes, but not me ‘cause I have no money. I’m not actually confident that those styles even belong to the above mentioned dudes (let’s just say one night stand socks are less identifiable).
Sex underwear which still have tags on them
Vaginal discharge is not pro-lace so why do I continually get mixed up with so much lace? #OngoingLifeRegrets
Blazers that were clearly purchased at a Suzy Shier in 1997
I have a baby blue lady suit that I wore wore to semi-formal dances in high school and during theatre school when playing awkward business moms. As I’m writing this, it’s becoming much clearer why I was a virgin until I was 21.
Skirts I bought from Jacob Jr. in Grade 8
Pleated. Plaid. Satin floor length. Polyester minis. Cargo ones with approximately 16 usable pockets where I kept my precious pogs and my even more precious slammers. These were a vital part of my wardrobe prior to my acquiring self-dignity. And gonna be honest – some are still kickin’ ‘round dresser town as a reminder of the mistakes I should not repeat.
Torn bras with underwire that will eventually murder me
I swear to god when my body is found in my bedroom the cause of death will be ‘stabbed in the lung’ by a shitty bra.
Feminist t-shirts (that are totally work appropriate)
Particularly the one that reads “VAGINA VAGINA VAGINA” in clear, bold, screaming letters. I received these as gifts mostly from my sister. Nothing makes me happier than slipping into a t-shirt that reads “FEMINIST AS FUCK” and watching the reactions of strangers I pass on the street/my Conservative uncles/guys I was considering having sex with but quickly change my mind about upon seeing their grossed out LOSER expressions.
Cool patterned clothing that I was so excited to buy and never ever wear ever
I have zebra print pants. I have a leopard print dress. I have a 101 Dalmatian-esque coat (faux-fur but equally as offensive). So we’re talkin’ mostly animal prints here but like there are a few weird, unidentifiable symbols on shirts that do not get outside much as well. When purchasing above mentioned items at used clothing stores, I was going through an identity crisis. I was all “Oh ya, I’m gonna be one of THESE people now” and later realized “Oh waittttt noooo, I’m notttttt”.
White blouses that are permanently wrinkled/brown from years of burrito consuming/possess 20% of the buttons they should possess
These are my actual job interview outfits (which rarely get me a job, unless disguised with a hot sweater vest). I believe most of them were procured at H&M on sale three years ago in bulk and I refuse, REFUSE, to buy new ones.
Tank tops that show midriff but were not designed to show midriff and have simply shrunk
I still have dreams of acquiring a belly button piercing, just so I can Jessica Alba the crap out of life.
Molly Ringwald-inspired prom dresses
I had one prom dress that was actually worn in public and then I have eight others which were featured in my sexy time fantasies where Ryan Phillippe and I met randomly at an alcohol serving bar and I just happened to be ready for the film premiere he wanted to take me to (Spoiler: I WAS ALSO IN THE MOVIE I WAS A STAR AND I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IT).