Officials Ronald Reagan Sold Crack Shirt
Because so many mainstream brands were untenable for me and my weird body, my taste became unwittingly elevated early on. I wore flimsy slip dresses under flannels when Marc Jacobs moved grunge to the catwalk. I wore Betsey Johnson babydolls over bellbottoms with Fluevogs. I snatched Alberta Ferretti and Moschino from the Loehmann’s Back Room, and T-shirts by Kim Gordon’s X-Girl line from the pages of Sassy magazine. I dressed sort of cool, sort of by accident. I proudly paraded my asymmetrical legs around the summertime streets of New York City in jean shorts until one day, around junior year of college, I woke up and suddenly thought, “I can’t believe I’ve been wearing shorts this whole time!” After that, my naked legs didn’t see the light of day for at least another decade. It felt like waking up from a dream and immediately descending into a worse one that was safer but bland. Skirts went over jeans; sweatshirts went around my waist. I still loved clothes, but their ability to bring beauty into my world became secondary. They instead became utilitarian: What could I wear that would also hide me? And once I was hidden, did I like the thing I had gotten onto my body? The sweatercoats of the early aughts were my most trusted frenemy.Officials Ronald Reagan Sold Crack Shirt
Throughout my twenties and thirties, the fluctuations got more dramatic, teetering and tottering between exposure and hiding, like a camera aperture auto-adjusting to light. How much exposure was I willing to give my body? How vulnerable did I feel like being? The answer changed depending on many factors: If I was dating, who I was dating, whether I was dieting, whether I was depressed. I wasn’t always aware of the shifts when they were happening; I could trace out the peaks and valleys only in hindsight. In my forties, I have a fashion equation: Does my desire to have the thing outweigh my self-consciousness? The results have gotten more predictably lopsided. If I want it—the gold-foil Molly Goddard dress with the stretchy shirred middle that shows off every bulge and ridge of my back; the Rachel Comey bubble mini that falls at the exact spot where the asymmetry of my thighs is most noticeable; the Isabel Marant blouse with very short shorts and No. 6 sandals (for a TV segment, no less)—and I can get it onto my body, then yes. My desire always wins, and the reason is simple: Life is too short not to dress however I want. When you’re young, you think you’ll always be young, and it’s impossible to think of ever running out of time for anything. That’s not the case when you’re in your forties, and I mean that in a good way.
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