New York City seems to be a place that has no time for those who can’t be taken seriously. And, of course, what better judge of character than appearance, duh?
So, as I walk down the street, I see all the shades of black I never even knew existed, I hear the resounding, rhythmic clunk of chunky heels followed by (I swear) the faint sobbing of a desperately sore foot, and I smell the sterility of chic newness, possibly to the chagrin of said wearer desperately trying to embody all things 1970.
Then it hits me. I look down to see that I am wearing last season, scallop-edged red shorts, an ancient white tube top I must’ve thought I looked like a straight dime in during freshman year of high school when my grandma ordered it for me on the internet, and boring, puke-yellow sandals purchased at, wait for it, The GAP. Needless to say my walk turned to a light jog, the kind that says “Determined and on a mission, but I never lose my cool.” I focused solely on the light at the end of the tunnel aka my new apartment, fearing any sort of eye contact with passersby would convey visual judgment.
Passersby would look at me and think, “Somebody get this girl a bus pass back to Iowa, she got lost,” or “Aw, look, another cute little sheltered suburbanite who knows absolutely nothing beyond the sidewalk limits of ‘Hickory Falls’ or maybe ‘Lake View’ sub development.
Needless to say, not all of my outfits are this atrocious. But, I thought I was suffering an identity crisis. I thought because I wore colors and the occasional low-rise jeans, that I was stifling my own individuality. I thought I did not look elegant, or expensive, or serious. I thought that because of what I wore, no one knew me as I truly was meant to be known; that no one knew me from the next stereotypical, girl-next-door.
But in reality, what I was suffering was not so much an identity crisis as it was a conformity crisis. I wanted to look serious and dark and exactly like the people around me. I wanted to embody New York. How naïve of me to consider this an identity crisis in a city which the embodiment of would mean to be like 13 million others.
No, I have since realized that this experience was a conformity crisis, just as one might experience moving from anywhere to anywhere. I have since come to accept the fact that I cannot brand my own individuality based on my style. To think that I or anyone could do so is extremely narcissistic. Your style is simply like the rest of you, a sum of your experiences. Yes, as human beings we are a pack of animals, we will be innately drawn towards pieces similar to those around us. But to obsess over standing out in a city such as New York is not only arbitrary and pretentious, but also divulges innate insecurity, and as for me, I think I’ll keep on wearing exactly what I want to wear.
