Working for the wardrobe

I’m about to launch into a full-throated, first-world, drippy-yuppie wallow session, and there’s just no way to complain this much without warning you first. If your tolerance for elitism and whining and trivial horseshit is low today, move along, Gentle Reader. Move along. 

This is one of those topics that will one-hundred-percent make you roll your eyes, way back to the back where it hurts. Lube up, kids — those peepers are about to get a major workout. 

So, here’s the rub: no one appreciates my outfits at work. Or did, before we all got sent home for three months.

Warned ya.

I really love clothes, and if you could see my closet, you’d be horrified. It’s well-organized, it’s just excessive; there’s no other word for it. 

And each item in and of itself is excessive. God help me, I’ll never be described as chic or modern. I believe in ruffles and bows and ruching and button details and velvets and sequins. Then there’s the desire to master the layered, pattern-mixing look — blazers and sweaters and Polkadot button-ups. 

The preppy in me lives for it. The Southerner in me is slowly suffocating. But make it fashion! 

Our editor once mentioned her desire to create a capsule wardrobe, and I felt legitimately mournful. I was mentally grieving the loss of her iconic, vintage collection of J.Crew goodies. She never went through with it, thank heavens, but I still worry she’ll abandon me for the Minimalist Party®.    

I’m fortunate to work for a marketing agency, which means pretty much anything goes. Maybe that’s why my colleagues aren’t appreciating my efforts? If you can go to work in leggings and a tunic or t-shirt and ball cap every day, why level up? But the thing is, they all look cute and effortless and relaxed. Maybe, to them, I look like a high-strung poodle about to take to the stage for the big show.

There was a time I worked alongside another proclaimed fashionphile, and it was a delight. For a brief moment in time, we lived in a magical toggery lovefest. We would talk about great finds and compliment small details, and she was always handy in a wardrobe malfunction moment of crisis. We could also talk about the stunning expense of it (so much money) and lament over the time we invested in it (so much time). Women dress for women, we know this, but I honestly feel like I still dress for her, just in case we bump into each other. It was nice to share a hobby with someone else.

I attend a lot of meetings during the week, and that helps to feed my narcissism. Strangers always help nourish the compliment monster. It’s entirely possible that my coworkers just don’t give a damn, but maybe they just can’t feed that machine every day. Not to get too deep during my superficial bratty whine-fest, but I do think my identity is perhaps too wrapped up in how others see me. I care very much about my reputation, and it fosters my need to be the most “together” person in the room. Look good, feel good is a mantra I’ve perhaps taken a little too seriously. 

And that’s just sheer overcompensation. When you grow up chunky, you have a stigma of laziness or lack of self-care attached to you. You can think I’m fat, but you can’t possibly spend time with me and walk away with the impression that I’m lazy. Lazy people don’t spend this much time with individual false eyelashes. 

I feel better about myself when I like my outfit. 

It’s that simple. 

And it’s that complicated. 

Note: I often post outfits or purchases on Instagram. Come play along! @jenaslens