Right before the pandemic foisted itself into our lives, I showed my sister in law my walk-in closet during a quick tour of my home. She made appreciative and complimentary statements about the master suit and then remarked, “you make me feel like I need to clean my closet.” It was not that she deemed me unusually tidy; it was that she regarded my clothes collection as austere.
It did not use to be that way. I have always loved clothes, but frugality often impeded acquisition. I learned to sew as a child, and I made some of my own clothes for reasons of economy and adherence to family culture. As a young teenager, I was given a clothing allowance of $10 per month, which dissipated immediately upon disposition. My first job, when I turned 16, at a fast food restaurant augmented my apparel investment. Dressing well in high school was not just about attracting boys; it signaled social status. The conflict between my fashion obsession and finances continued, unabated, through my college years and through law school.
My attire needs took a dramatic detour when I became a lawyer. Working as an associate attorney required that I wear a suit every single day. It not just demonstrated commitment to the profession, it signaled my readiness to run to court at any time if a partner walked into my office and slapped motion pleadings on my desk. I forged the boundaries between full-time employee and devoted mother as best I could, showing up for scores of elementary school functions dressed in business ensembles, my outfit starkly contrasting with the wrinkled t-shirts and sweatpants of my kids.
With maturity, and tenure, my days of going to court diminished as younger attorneys handled more routine motions. But I clung to dressing with clout to demonstrate leadership and prerogative. When I founded my own firm, I began to understand that I had the power to dress with authority – or not. I still clasped onto to a business casual wardrobe for reasons that had more to do with influence and perception than necessity or imperative.
But something mysterious happened along the way: I stopped caring. I discarded smart khaki pants and sleekly finished dress pants in favor of colored jeans. Crisp dress shirts and sweater sets morphed into comfy long-sleeved shirts. Wedges and kitten heels evolved into fashionable but sensible loafers or low-heeled sandals. I still cling stubbornly to a vestige of formality – make-up every day of the week and blue jeans only on Fridays– but a natural evolution might ordain that I will one day stroll into my office in yoga pants, a t-shirt, and workout shoes.
I wander through the quietly and beautifully cloistered closet in my home. I gaze at a simple alignment of pantsuits, unpretentiously graced in muted colors, and I brush off an almost-indistinguishable layer of dust from their shoulders. I wonder whether the next time I pull them from their hangars I will be going to court – or placing them in a donation bin. My blazers stand resolutely at the ready to top off black dress pants for deposition duty. I gaze with fondness and a twinge of sadness at my assortment of party dresses that quietly yearn for a wedding dance floor.
Gentle but persistent mandates flicker across my mind: I ought to refresh my wardrobe because what I wear demonstrates self-regard and sends surreptitious signals to the outside world. I briefly ponder a blitz of on-line shopping, the excitement of trying on new clothes, and viewing myself in the latest fashion.
I sigh and stretch in the comforting familiarity of stretchy sportswear. Maybe later.