Moose and Squirrel Go to the Mall
Or, Kia Is Not a Fashionista
When I decided I needed new work clothes, I wasn't expecting a small personal epiphany. I just knew working an 8-4 was wearing out my work clothes and that I needed new ones to replace them. I asked Kristin if she wanted to go shopping with me - after all, she's got great fashion sense, she knows what all the "good" stores are, all that jazz. She's completely at home doing this sort of thing, so I figured she'd be a good person to go with.
I had completely forgotten the feeling of crippling inadequacy that clothes shopping brings up in me. I walk into brand stores - GAP, Banana Republic, H&M, and the like - and I just freeze. The walls are stark white, the decor is minimal, everything is very spread out and arranged just so, and it's not just fantastic sticker shock that gives me pause - it's the atmosphere. How could someone like me, in my functional denim capris and simple claddagh printed camisole, ever fit in this world of sharp fifty-dollar slacks and perfect hair and makeup? Because, quite honestly, I don't. I would feel more at home at a rave or a Twilight convention than I do in most brand clothing stores. Yesterday, I finally figured out why.
It's not me.
I never learned about the world of high fashion; in fact, for the longest time, my mom despaired of getting me to ever wear anything other than guy's shirts and jeans. Convincing me to wear makeup was an ongoing battle for quite a while. To me, twenty dollars for a pair of pants is a bit on the expensive side and "layering" means putting a sweater on over your t shirt in case it gets cold. I can certainly look nice for work and glam it right up when I need to, but for the most part, I am happy as a clam in a clever shirt from Woot and jeans.
That all changes when, wearing that shirt and those jeans, I walk into a brand clothing store. The pants that cost more than my entire ensemble bewilder me; don't I have something in my closet just like that for a fraction of the price? Layered suit jackets do the same - what would you ever wear that with? And what on Earth is the point of a sheer camisole?
The worst part is when, already completely confused, I look up and see the ads. There, printed on the wall in larger than life size and clarity, is a twentysomething blonde wearing the clothing that so befuddled me in a perfectly crafted outfit. Her hair is perfectly styled. Her makeup is perfectly applied. She could walk out into that mall and turn heads, snag any guy she wanted, and absolutely wrap him around her finger, because she is perfect. She is the Girl Your Girl Could Dress Like.
It took me a few good hours after bailing out of those stores in a fit of overwhelming inadequacy to realize a simple truth: it's very easy to be perfect when you're printed on a hanging advertisement.
I finally got over myself long enough to tell Kristin that brand stores weren't working for me and couldn't we hit up a Kohl's on the way home? There was one in a shopping center on the way, after all. Having successfully navigated said brand stores and made a few purchases of her own, Kristin was perfectly fine with that plan of action. We found a Kohl's and a Ross right next to it (which, when I suggested going in, led her to ask, "Ross sells clothes?" We are very much from different worlds). Kohl's didn't have everything I needed, true, but it was familar. The racks were close together, some too tight for me to squeeze my wheeled basket through. The clearance section was enormous. People had put clothes back in the wrong place - everything was in the right general area but by no means meticulously arranged. The advertising was minimal. My capris and claddagh cami and I felt right at home, and I walked out with new clothes that looked good on me without spending a mint for the privilege.
I'm not the Girl Your Girl Could Dress Like. In all honesty, I don't want to be. I likely could be if I tried - spent a small fortune on clothes, took fashion lessons from the best of them to learn how to wear said clothes, got my hair cut and styled, and spent another small fortune on makeup, and hey, after a complete overhaul of my personal aesthetic, I could definitely look like that. Or, I could go to Kohl's, get clothing that I like, looks good on me, and doesn't break the bank, save money for the more important things in my life, and be comfortable in my own skin. Kind of a no-brainer, isn't it.
I'm not from that fashion world. I never will be. While I will not judge anyone who is, I refuse to let it indimidate me anymore. Life's too short to worry that much about what you wear.
Plus, I like my Woot shirts. High fashion doesn't make subtle Monty Python jokes, after all.
When I decided I needed new work clothes, I wasn't expecting a small personal epiphany. I just knew working an 8-4 was wearing out my work clothes and that I needed new ones to replace them. I asked Kristin if she wanted to go shopping with me - after all, she's got great fashion sense, she knows what all the "good" stores are, all that jazz. She's completely at home doing this sort of thing, so I figured she'd be a good person to go with.
I had completely forgotten the feeling of crippling inadequacy that clothes shopping brings up in me. I walk into brand stores - GAP, Banana Republic, H&M, and the like - and I just freeze. The walls are stark white, the decor is minimal, everything is very spread out and arranged just so, and it's not just fantastic sticker shock that gives me pause - it's the atmosphere. How could someone like me, in my functional denim capris and simple claddagh printed camisole, ever fit in this world of sharp fifty-dollar slacks and perfect hair and makeup? Because, quite honestly, I don't. I would feel more at home at a rave or a Twilight convention than I do in most brand clothing stores. Yesterday, I finally figured out why.
It's not me.
I never learned about the world of high fashion; in fact, for the longest time, my mom despaired of getting me to ever wear anything other than guy's shirts and jeans. Convincing me to wear makeup was an ongoing battle for quite a while. To me, twenty dollars for a pair of pants is a bit on the expensive side and "layering" means putting a sweater on over your t shirt in case it gets cold. I can certainly look nice for work and glam it right up when I need to, but for the most part, I am happy as a clam in a clever shirt from Woot and jeans.
That all changes when, wearing that shirt and those jeans, I walk into a brand clothing store. The pants that cost more than my entire ensemble bewilder me; don't I have something in my closet just like that for a fraction of the price? Layered suit jackets do the same - what would you ever wear that with? And what on Earth is the point of a sheer camisole?
The worst part is when, already completely confused, I look up and see the ads. There, printed on the wall in larger than life size and clarity, is a twentysomething blonde wearing the clothing that so befuddled me in a perfectly crafted outfit. Her hair is perfectly styled. Her makeup is perfectly applied. She could walk out into that mall and turn heads, snag any guy she wanted, and absolutely wrap him around her finger, because she is perfect. She is the Girl Your Girl Could Dress Like.
It took me a few good hours after bailing out of those stores in a fit of overwhelming inadequacy to realize a simple truth: it's very easy to be perfect when you're printed on a hanging advertisement.
I finally got over myself long enough to tell Kristin that brand stores weren't working for me and couldn't we hit up a Kohl's on the way home? There was one in a shopping center on the way, after all. Having successfully navigated said brand stores and made a few purchases of her own, Kristin was perfectly fine with that plan of action. We found a Kohl's and a Ross right next to it (which, when I suggested going in, led her to ask, "Ross sells clothes?" We are very much from different worlds). Kohl's didn't have everything I needed, true, but it was familar. The racks were close together, some too tight for me to squeeze my wheeled basket through. The clearance section was enormous. People had put clothes back in the wrong place - everything was in the right general area but by no means meticulously arranged. The advertising was minimal. My capris and claddagh cami and I felt right at home, and I walked out with new clothes that looked good on me without spending a mint for the privilege.
I'm not the Girl Your Girl Could Dress Like. In all honesty, I don't want to be. I likely could be if I tried - spent a small fortune on clothes, took fashion lessons from the best of them to learn how to wear said clothes, got my hair cut and styled, and spent another small fortune on makeup, and hey, after a complete overhaul of my personal aesthetic, I could definitely look like that. Or, I could go to Kohl's, get clothing that I like, looks good on me, and doesn't break the bank, save money for the more important things in my life, and be comfortable in my own skin. Kind of a no-brainer, isn't it.
I'm not from that fashion world. I never will be. While I will not judge anyone who is, I refuse to let it indimidate me anymore. Life's too short to worry that much about what you wear.
Plus, I like my Woot shirts. High fashion doesn't make subtle Monty Python jokes, after all.