This morning while looking at my face in the mirror it hit me. I’m going to be thirty in two weeks. Thirty. My skin will not bounce back like it used to when I pick at it. Neither will my body. I appreciate (and agree) with the newer discourse in our generation that being thirty is still being young, but I also feel as if in focusing on the youth of thirty, we forget the importance of sending off your twenties. Maybe that’s just something I need to do, if not mourn, then process that I will never be in my twenties again (or at least, in this lifetime), and now they are a part of me the way that our middle school selves are — only from afar. My twenties now look like a boat I will soon disembark and never travel on again and all I’m left with are souvenirs on my mantelpiece.
I’ve mentioned this before, but I’ve been in a reflective mood. Thinking about my inner workings has seeped into thinking about my outer ones, and for possibly the first time in my life, I’ve been thinking about my personal style. I have always had a good sense of what I liked and how to wear it. I have never really paid attention to trends and often found myself on the outskirts or on the precipice of them, always one step ahead. This is superficial, but it has been a point of pride for me. In truth, I don’t care how superficial it is. If it’s one thing I’ve known, it’s dressing well.
These last six months, however, have felt different. I felt bored with my closet and also felt as though I had lost whatever sauce I had in me, that magical sense of knowing clothing, that made my outfits looks. Partially, it came from feeling out of touch with my body as it morphed, not into something bad but different. Nothing fit, which sucked, but what felt worse was the spark in my brain that happened while dressing had dimmed. I saw the staples in my closet as setbacks. When I looked online for inspiration, it felt too similar to what has been my uniform for years (cowboy boots, 90s shift dresses, small vintage handbags). It was as if I got too comfortable in my style and woke up one day and felt the proverbial rug pulled underneath me — not only did I feel bored with my prized arsenal, but everything that once felt right on my body — had merged into the collective consciousness.
This bothered me, but it required some self-assessment as to why. To a degree, I worried I was coming off as trendy in the clothing I had worn for years. I didn’t want that reflection from strange eyes onto myself, although I recognize that these things aren’t that deep. It felt as though I was losing some secret societal privilege that I very secretly enjoyed — being myself was naturally being different. I’ve always had a rebellious streak in me that allowed me to remain at an exact degree of distance from my peers, enough to be let into the mass but not enough to be fully sucked in. Turning to a completely different style of dressing to maintain this felt disingenuous; true personal style, I know, comes from deep within and not a Pinterest board. I felt stuck in between many pebbles of thought. It wasn’t as if I needed a change because I saw everyone doing the same thing — I already felt like I was cosplaying a version of myself, but any avenues of inspiration at my disposal nowadays felt contrived.
I think this conundrum was particularly hard because it was happening during the last year of my twenties. Everyone older than me relayed the same prophecy to me: your twenties are for figuring out who you are, and your thirties are for being who you are. I cried to A one Sunday morning about the anxiety I felt all of a sudden. I was so sure of who I was in the world all of my twenties, and then, in my final year, uncertainty hit me like a violent wave on otherwise calm waters. You’ve grown so much this year, he assured me, you do know who you are. I felt crummy the whole day after, feeling so dumb for crying about such trivialities.
But these trivialities, we all know, are more than just clothing and style and appearance. It’s the most human thing to want to be an independent creature, as human as it is to want to be part of the pack. I wanted to be seen on my terms and not under the lens of a trend, micro or not. I wanted to feel comfortable in clothing like I used to (style can’t be taught, but a trick to good style is that it’s all about being comfortable in what you wear — simply owning it.) I wanted to exude what I generally feel is good about myself, my creativity, my whims, my eye for interesting in the morbid and the mundane. The cure for my inner turmoils wasn’t searching for a new sense of style — it’s befriending my curiosities again, beyond whatever I find to put on my body.
Here’s what I’m doing now to get out of this funk. It’s working well so far.
I made an ongoing set of four lists. What I like in a piece of clothing, what I like in the world in general (clouds, tulips, hearing when small children speak a language other than English), who inspires me in their work and sure, dress, and who/what I want to be in this life.
I deleted TikTok and soon, Instagram. I am only using Pinterest to supplement my lists but not shop. Pinterest will regurgitate whatever it thinks you want to see. Be wary of this.
Reacquaint myself with other modes of inspiration outside of social media. When I was younger that meant movies, Nylon and Paper magazines, and old runway archives on Tumblr, to name a few things. I’m watching movies again and taking note of what I like/don’t like. Also people-watching more in general.
Only buying fun stuff in person. This week, I shopped for presents and essentials online but treated myself to two things that caught my interest unexpectedly when shopping in person (this blue eyeshadow and Dr. Singha’s Mustard Bath) If it speaks to you IRL, ask it why.
I am cleaning my space every day. When I get back home from cat-sitting, I’m doing another closet clean-out to only have pieces that I wear constantly.
I am letting my mind wander by going on walks more frequently with no headphones on.
There has been a lot of discourse on the internet about similar emotions I’ve been feeling around personal style these past few weeks. For more on the topic, I recommend the death of personal style by Mina Le and The Only "Personal Style" Advice I'll Give by Sophia Dowling. These two pieces eerily emoted what I’ve been feeling and inspired my ‘out of funk’ list above.
While writing and editing this, I listened to Suntub by ML Buch. I also had a cheddar snail from Hi-Rise that was very very good.
That’s all I have this week — I’m also into drinking tea (mostly cause I’m sick), washing clothing (‘cause I have such easy access to a washer/dryer right now), and Grey Gardens. (Little Edie had such great style)
kisses,
gabo