The Joy of Dressing Up

There’s magic in dressing for the occasion. Any occasion.

via Unsplash

Weird question for you, do you ever know you’re sort of out of it when you don’t get excited to dress up in the morning?

I texted this to Taylor one morning, having grinned and bared it through another set of morning ablutions before donning a tacky Christmas sweater and bauble-y earrings for the day. This particular sartorial decision was made because my sister was texting me about how she was going to wear her tacky sweater to work.

I might’ve looked festive, but I felt pretty banal about my trappings.

Getting dressed in the morning is a particular kind of joy. One that I’m astounded not everyone wants to partake in.

The whole process is a reflection of yourself in the present moment, from how you feel to how you perceive yourself. Or even how you want to be perceived.

A current photo of me in an office bathroom, channeling as much ‘That Girl’ as I can.

For me, getting dressed is preparing for an adventure, assuming the role and possibility of a day. I did this a lot, especially when I was a teenager, honing it even more when I worked at a consignment shop during college.

Each day required a costume, whether that was wearing overalls for a Home Depot errand or wearing a 1960s sundress and sunglasses to pick up my dad at the airport.

Dressing for the Occasion, Any Occasion

I’ll take any opportunity to fill in the storyline set by a moody moment. Once, my sister caught me looking out into the rain from our window seat in the kitchen. Soft, moody music played in the background. “ — are you listening to me?” she asked, breaking her own diatribe and capturing my attention.

My ears perked up, but I kept staring out the window. “Yes,” I said. “But the song’s really good and matches doing this right now.” She’s made fun of me ever since.

My closet held the same drama, my clothes acting as costumes for an itinerary of fictional situations:

1. A sheer purple floral shirt, dubbed my romcom blouse, which I would pair with ankle length pants and black flats. Perfect for a Central Park walk, where I’d be minding my own business, before getting amusingly tangled in a hoard of dog leashes lead by a rather adorable, yet somewhat awkward man. We’d make eye contact and end up together in the end, of course.
2. A yellow canvas swing coat with large brown buttons and a mock neckline— my way of capturing the confidence of Mary Tyler Moore and the obvious go-to piece for when I was doing small errands but really wandering aimlessly. I believe Petula Clark captured that feeling best, describing that as when you’re alone and life is making you lonely so you always go . . . downtown!
3. Better yet — my Tori Scott faux leather jacket*. An impetuous and first big purchase while in college. A deep brown that it was almost black, the jacket reminded me of my dad’s love for leather jackets and had an era of biker cool before AllSaints’ Balfern jacket was all the rage. It was my “I’m cool and don’t give a shit” piece worn with floaty scarves and in the dead of winter. As the girl you thought was boring, tame, and full of puns but could cut you down to size, start a juke box with the jab of an elbow, and was at home in skeevy pool halls.

This is the best example I can find of my airport outfit from when I was in college.

*Weirdly, my faux leather jacket is my most polarizing piece. I’ve been called everything from Saved By the Bell’s Tori to a lesbian (to which I said so what?). I eventually started to feel self-conscious and not cool in it. And then, lo and behold, everyone got a biker jacket a year later. Go figure.

I’m Just a Girl Standing in Front of Her Closet, Asking It to Be Fun Again

I’m not sure what happened. Dreaming up my day, adding large statement jewelry, pulling my hair into weird knots to support narratives in my head. . . I stopped the ritual some time ago. I can’t pinpoint when exactly.

My relationship with my body was different. My relationship with myself was even more alien. The joy of dressing wasn’t there anymore.

Taylor, my co-editor, theorized whether this was a symptom of leaving New York.

We spent years enmeshed in that sartorial inspiration, but also competition, and now we have permission to lean out.

Was that true?

I spent my adult formative years in New York. At certain points early on, I’d gift items to friends that no longer felt de jour — a yellow day dress with the Peter Pan collar perfect for a career swap into elementary school education, or a polka dot denim shirt dress made for red lipstick and Liberty rolls. I was trimming down my trimmings. Less hodgepodge and variety. More basics.

Me, on my first day at the new store job in New York.

The look, back then, was model off-duty. And that meant lots of black.

Black had a way of making people stand out in New York. A black sweater on one woman would be carried and styled differently on the next. For another, there was something about seeing the quality of clothing up close, of seeing repeat items on wearers to generate lust, and seeing that perfect piece at the perfect slot of time to instill envy. It wasn’t a way to hide, and it certainly wasn’t boring.

But that wasn’t me, I told myself. I had perspective. I dressed for occasions. I had an eclectic closet prepared for all the happenstances romcoms promised of New York!

But I gave away my romcom blouse. I donated that yellow swing coat. I tossed my fake leather jacket. Items that had a weird-hopeful scene in my head, stopped having a space in my life and my closet, which is usually small in New York and requires you to trim down even more.

I grew unhappy. I lost a lot of weight. But I made money. I found stability in my responsibilities and shirked off fun and friendships and being present. Because when you compromise one big part of yourself, those other compromises feel par for the course.

My closet turned towards staples to wear at my luxury retail job: black pants and tights, monochrome anything, baggy sweaters that were dark enough to be chic. No more large earrings or weird hair. Just my backpack to carry lunch and generic booties I could wear on the sales floor.

One of the moodier shots my friend captured before going into work.

In retrospect, I realize that’s when my closet and way of dressing pivoted. I lost so much weight that I started to hate how my clothes were making me feel. Treasonous articles that had once made me feel special and dreamy now made me feel small and scattered.

I tossed a lot. I dragged bags to Goodwill, and when I was done, I was left with a minimalist closet, a lighter feeling of starting afresh. I ended a relationship that I’d started that to fill the holes I was feeling. We all know how bad of an idea those relationships are, but they never feel like a bad idea until they do. I found a new apartment. And I moved up in that luxury retail job to a salaried role in their corporate office.

In a New York Mini, Everything Can Change

My new salaried role, which sprung from a series of internships with the main office, felt like it was residually earned. I had failed to get the role twice before. By the time the next interview had come around, I had written it off in my head. At prior interviews, I wore blazers and buttons up, black pants and minimal jewelry. And I never heard back.

I walked into that third interview with a lingerie-inspired black slip skirt, a loose fitting white tee French-tucked into the band, and a bag of Levain cookies to gift to the interviewer. The huge puck-sized cookies were a splurge back then, but having already gone through the process and having felt burned by said process, I was pretty done with trying to be impressive. I just wanted to be myself.

This is the thing about wanting to be yourself:

1. It always feels like a cliché so you feel rather ridiculous saying it, and
2. Who the hell else do you think you’re supposed to be?

Working at a luxury lingerie store, I started incorporating lingerie into my everyday wear— bodysuits as tops, slips under heavy sweaters, sheer blouses to show off longline bras. It helped me sell things. It helped me embrace the alien environment I was in: luxury retail in Soho. It was just another costume to support just another narrative, but not one of my own invention.

Assisting on my first photoshoot. I let the makeup artist do his thing to my face.

Getting ready in the morning wasn’t a daily exercise in my imagination anymore. Those scenes in my head for that shirt paired with that skirt for the perfect walk down an autumnal sidewalk moment or that coat with that scarf at the farmer’s market where a stall owner would know exactly how much kale I needed that week, were stomped down with a heavy dose of reality and sarcasm. As if those scenes would happen now!

Survival — whether from the elements, that classic once-over you get in Manhattan, or mental protection that life wasn’t going idealistically — was my new sartorial motivation.

I can’t parse out what “being myself” versus “feeling happy that I fit in” might’ve been. I was still a noob when it came to being That New York Woman. Having helped countless women undress for lingerie, I saw plenty of examples on the sales floor. I could see what brand her t-shirts were, note the different styles of must-have winter coats, or eye the designer of the sans-logo leather reticule dangling from her shoulder. But that confidence still eluded me.

In my eyes I was still a failure of a writer who hadn’t actually written in months, burned by years in a fruitless job search. New York was magical, to be sure. But there wasn’t room for yet another failed dreamer in her midst.

I couldn’t sit to read a book anymore, at least not for extended periods. I stopped sending out pitches for my writing. I didn’t want to see friends and I felt my absence in their circle as they talked about inside jokes and found easy comfort in deepening relationships. I just hoped I showed the world a more confidently careless woman who had a handle on things.

Me, as That New York Woman

That particular costume was a mini skirt and black tights for that date. Yoga pants, black sneakers, and slubby sweatshirt for the weekend. Stan Smiths, leather leggings, cropped knits, dewy face for the day. A friend I’ve had since college later called it my “Instagram-cool girl aesthetic” and that she didn’t know what to do with it.

She wasn’t off. There were days in the office where more than one person was dressed the same. And we’d all laugh together as we’d take group pics for the ‘gram.

Being Style-ish

Fast forward: I’m currently undergoing a full New York detox in Atlanta, my new home. My morning routine includes standing inside a much-larger closet, looking over the staid, yet chic basics Madewell taught me to curate, fumbling with feeling right in my own body again.

My present self has things my past self would envy— financial security, health benefits, a routine of saving money. My closet isn’t full of the same hodgepodge of consignment, thrift, and online scores it once was, although a girl does try. Instead, the items of my closet feel almost protective.

The right pumpkin colored sweater to wear for Thanksgiving. The perfect green canvas coat for crisp fall mornings. The go-to white midi skirt for summer beach vacations. No one can once-over me with judgement. I can avoid scrutiny and feel like I fit in any situation.

In Soho, across the street from my store.

There’s a point in life where you’re fantasizing about growing up, imagining what that could be like, and then you realize that you’re there. It’s happened. You’re grown. And looking at my closet, the items aren’t for a fantasy what-if anymore.

My closet feels properly calibrated for my era of life, but for some reason it doesn’t feel like I’ve grown up yet.

My internal dowsing rods direct me towards dressing for comfort and confidence while I figure it out. “What would make me feel my best today?” is a usual refrain, and I’ll move from extremes: putting on knee high boots and an an embroidered skirt to putting on my comfiest track pants and a large grandpa cardigan. My moods reverberate similarly, and I’m absolutely ape for the days I feel myself wanting to get creative.

And dreaming again feels good.

No One’s Looking but I Still Care

There’s a unique anticipatory feeling I’d get before school dances: Finding the perfect dress, matching the right accessories, and putting everything on. I’d bet you Tony Stark even felt that thrum of excitement before he put on his Iron Man suit. Dressing up is thrilling. It’s a conversation with yourself on how you want to feel for the day, maybe even who you want to be for the day. It’s a way for you to prepare yourself, to invite other people to approach you, and to reflect what you want back from the universe.

My “when you’re in Italy” dress, a narrative that I got to fulfill this year.

Those cinematic moments never happen in real life, not usually. My airport outfit never got me a Penny Lane-esque chase from a would-be-lover. My romcom shirt never got me a run-in with that handsome man. But, there’s a unique joy dressing the part for a trip to the airport. There’s a little kick to my step when I’m wearing a romcom-like shirt outside, in sight of puppies and meadows.

Approaching the world with cinematic flair while I do the very mundane — that feels like its own sort of magic.