I’m Begging You All, Please Let 1990s Fashion Stay Dead
An Open Letter to Generation Z
Dear Generation Z,
It has gradually come to my attention over the past year or so that you are doing your best to resurrect fashion trends from the 1990s. I think I speak for Generation X, Generation Y, and — well, really any sentient being that happened to be alive at that point in history when I say this: please don’t. We can’t go through that shit again.
First came the fanny packs, and I did not speak out, because I have never worn and never will wear a fanny pack. (I don’t care if people say you can sling that thing across your body or call it a ‘belt bag’ — it is still a fanny pack and it needs to go back to whatever circle of hell it crawled out of.)
Then came the bicycle shorts, and I did not speak out because I know that short spandex is for working out and for working out only. As for flesh-colored bicycle shorts, those should never be allowed to see the light of day.
Then came the slip dresses, and I did not speak out because (a) I can’t afford to go braless at this stage of my life and (b) I avoid anything with straps that are thinner than my thumb.
But then came the bucket hats and ’90s hairstyles. At that point, I realized that there was no one left in your generation who would speak out against these atrocities because you had all succumbed to the fashion of Friends (seasons 1–6).
Why, why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? You should have let it all stay dead!!
You kids have no idea what it was like back then. But I do. I was a teenager when heroin chic hit the magazine stands. (That’s right: we read actual physical magazines back then.) Those were dark days.
I don’t know what you’ve heard about the ’90s, but it wasn’t all White House sex scandals and Spice Girls. Sure, it was a period of strong economic growth that also gave us Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It was very different from today, when nobody under the age of 55 will ever own property and everybody knows that Joss Whedon was a total jerk to Charisma Carpenter. But please hear me when I say to you that committing fashion crimes in an attempt to escape to what seems like a better, more innocent time won’t fix anything.
I beg you, pause to consider the consequences of your actions before it’s too late! Do you actually want to pluck your eyebrows into a thin little line until you’re left with maybe a dozen hairs that are willing to keep growing back week after week? Do you want to be remembered as the generation that resurrected the cargo pant?
And it wasn’t just fashion, kids. Ohhhhh no. Even our music wasn’t safe. I still wake up screaming from nightmares about ska-punk and the swing revival.
I can no longer stand idly by while chunky platforms prowl our streets, striking terror into the hearts of all mankind. I can no longer watch as mom jeans, crop tops, and sheer dresses conspire to deprive us all of our sanity. I must speak out! The fact is that the world just won’t survive another encounter with underwear-as-outerwear!
I say this with love, and with the wisdom that comes with having survived the decade of high-waisted pants, crimping, and mini-backpacks: for the love of Winona Ryder, stop now. Stop while you still can. Let 1990s fashion die, and bury it in an unmarked grave.
Except Doc Martens. You can keep those.
Sincerely,
Mary Flannery, Elder Millennial
