Clothes have always been a sort of armor for me. In middle school my armor (Abercrombie tops and American Eagle jeans) was for likening my image to the crowd less awkward. In high school, my clothes were for dressing up as characters in costume for theater and dance, armor for performance. In college, I armored up to delineate myself from the traditional co-ed. With my hair cropped short and my clothes so outrageous, I subconsciously said “this isn’t for you” to friend and foe. I’ve seemed to have lost the angst over the last several years, but I still use my outfits to fight.
New York has broken me in plenty of ways, both good and bad. I never expected my fashion sense to be one of the first pleasures shattered. I figured street fashion was for the thin, the beautiful, those who are allowed to call attention to themselves. So with anxious, defeatist tendencies and the addition of 15 pounds, I didn’t deem myself worthy of being noticed. Where I once excelled, I slunk back in defeat.
But I fought back. I fought the anxiety. I fought the self-doubt, the weight gain, the word “pretty.” And I came back with a new set of armor, a new look because I deserve to be looked at twice. Furry oversized vests, structured coats and bold patterns became my coat of arms. The bigger the better. Each day I make it a point to put together an ensemble that emboldens me to be the biggest version of myself. And today I was emboldened by Duckie of “Pretty in Pink” and Diane Keaton a la “Annie Hall.” So there.
[coat-madewell, earrings-anthropologie, scarf-zara, sweater-madewell, bag-chloe]