The Calculus of Fashion

If the bar scene is any indication of what is generally required in the social strata of twenty and thirty-something year-olds, then it’s safe to say I’m screwed for the next decade or two. Everyone always looks so well put together; at the beginning of the night anyhow.



I used to think, during those awkward stages of adolescence--and when my poor mother had to drag me to JC Pennys and Kohls, and drudge through my tears and protests when I needed a newer wardrobe to fit my growing body--that someday it would just come natural to me. And finding some acceptable costume that looked normal and felt right wouldn’t be such a vexing and mystical process.



That time never came. I’m convinced there’s some ever-changing mathematical frame through which the social experts must filter their clothing, their conversation, their composure. And I just don’t get it. So I’ve given up on trying to.



Forgive me, I just never understood why little girl's clothing needed to be riddled with butterflies or hearts or "fuckin' flowers" as I liked to dub them. And as I got a little older, I didn’t understand why anyone would want “LOVE” or "Juicy" written across their ass.



And I still don’t understand, to the point where I can’t even describe, how or why in the dimly lit bar everyone else looks so put together here tonight. I feel like one of those animal cracker that doesn’t look quite right. Something that looks like a zebra, but has half of an elephant head jutting out from its underbelly, some chimerical manufacturing mishap. And my only saving grace is that, everyone is probably enjoying themselves too much to notice the oddity: a conglomeration of sweatpants and wildly colored cotton and running shoes that look like a mix of something between the geriatric and the juvenile.



I suppose if there were a rehab for the fashionably-challenged my family and friends would hold an intervention “Kristen, we’re here today because we love you and want to help you. Last week . . . I had to convince social services that yes, indeed you could take care of yourself, even though you look like a cracked-out clearance rack. I worry at night . . . I can't even sleep . . . I wonder . . . are you even having any fun? Oh God, it hurts, it hurts to see you in this condition. Please accept this wonderful offer so you can get your life together.” 



Because whenever I find myself in these places, with a group of familiar acquaintances, their glances and their “Are you having a good time?”s proliferate throughout the night. They need a constant affirmation that despite my wardrobe and my visible discomfort, that I am not totally miserable.



I am not though. I’m fine as far as fine can go. And I appreciate their concern. A good-time is a bit of an overstatement though, so I fudge the truth and assure them I'm alright. I’m not having a particularly bad time after all.



I’m just having a conversation with myself, and we agree that this is hopelessly mediocre, and we’d probably feel better if we were somewhere else.