Pearls over fuzzy sweaters and name brand button-downs: uniforms of the elite, costumes for the wannabes.
Getting dressed on a particularly nippy morning, I eye my winter clothes with a zealous, almost longing, gaze. They’re exquisitely made. Imported. Like an invisible string linking the matronly socialites of the world to the everyday regulars, I see the link from them to me clearly.
From the waist up, all that I wear is secondhand. The predecessor of my vintage wool-cashmere crew sweater lives on the island of Palm Beach, but I’ve never met her. When I wear her clothing, I like to imagine what she’s doing now. I imagine her having brunch at the local country club, sipping cocktails well before the permissible hour and gawking at the young fellows who do the gardening. I like to think that maybe, someday, I’ll even be her. Who knows? If I wear her clothing long enough, maybe the personality might stick.
Then, there’s the hidden story behind the classically cotton button-down. Who wore it before me? Who bought it, kept it clean and freshly pressed, made sure it stayed baby blue long after it wasn’t a new fabric anymore, and then relinquished it, still whole and good, to a consignment store? Why did she do it? Did she simply get bored of the top, or was she forced to relinquish it after the fashion season was up? Will I, clingy as I am to my older clothes (the ones that have seen me through my greatest triumphs and my darkest days), someday learn to do the same?
My finishing touches, the rose gold rhinestone bracelet and Vera Bradley messenger crossbody are the only pieces I didn’t have to dig out of a bin or full garment racks. I feel an odd sort of pride in knowing that I’ve been their only owner, that only I know the whole backstory behind each purchase. With no mysteries to solve here, it’s easier for me to envision their futures. I might wear out the bracelet to a magazine launch or lug around the laptop bag on the New York subway.
The scent of ambition trails after me long after I’m dressed: it leaves a lingering scent of naked desperation in the clothes I wear out. While the clothes I wear solve a temporary problem (“What will I wear today?”), they also present a new one: What will I wear, and who will I be, tomorrow?
I can’t say that I’ll ever know, but at least I’m looking to the future—in my secondhand clothes.
