Finding the Thread

I have been curating my wardrobe lately.

I didn't set out to make it a hobby. I was simply trying to find clothes that fit my body, felt good, and worked for the life I actually live. I wanted something I could wear to work that felt professional without feeling overly dressed. I wanted to be comfortable. I wanted to walk into a room feeling put together.

Somewhere along the way, it became fun.

I began paying closer attention to what I actually liked. Not what I thought I should like. Not what was fashionable. Not what someone my age, size, profession, or shape was supposed to wear.

What did I reach for?

What stayed in the closet?

What did I put on and leave on because I was comfortable?

What made me feel like myself?

It sounds simple. I'm not sure it is.

We have spent our lives receiving messages about clothing and appearance. They come from family and culture, movies and magazines, music, workplaces, advertising, social media and, of course, the fashion industry itself.

We learn what is attractive. What is professional. What is flattering. What we're supposed to hide. What we're supposed to emphasize. What women our age should or shouldn't wear. There are so many voices that it can become difficult to hear your own.

And sometimes we put on a costume.

It may be a perfectly nice costume. It may even look good. But underneath it, something doesn't quite fit.

Lately I've been interested in that word: fit.

A garment can fit according to the size chart and still not fit me.

And something else can fit in ways that have very little to do with measurements.

I have a sleeveless turquoise floral dress that I've been wearing this summer. It has a soft drape, a V-neck, and a long flowing skirt. My arms are completely free. I can wear it in the heat, throw a short cotton cardigan over it when the office air conditioning gets ridiculous, and take the cardigan off again when I step outside.

I put the dress on and forget about it.

That may be one of the best definitions of fit I've found.

There is no tugging. No covering. No wondering whether I should have worn something else.

I'm dressed.

I can move on.

The same thing has happened with my hair. I wear it very short. As in, very short. There are little wisps and spikes, and when it grows another quarter or half inch, I start thinking about getting it cut again.

My hair is also turning gray.

I could grow it. Color it. Curl it. Soften it.

I don't want to.

I like how it feels.

That seems to matter more to me now than whether it conforms to some idea of attractiveness. I'm not particularly interested in walking into a room hoping people think, She looks attractive.

I want to walk into a room and be present.

Perhaps that's where clothing becomes more interesting than fashion.

When I curate something carefully—a dress that moves with me, shoes I can comfortably walk in, a cardigan that works with the proportions of my body, my short hair, my backpack over my shoulder, coffee in hand—I feel prepared.

Nothing is asking for my attention anymore.

And maybe that's the paradox.

We can spend time attending to ourselves so that when we enter the room, we can stop attending to ourselves.

We aren't wondering about our arms or our stomach or whether our shoes look right. We aren't pulling the cardigan around ourselves or adjusting something that doesn't quite feel like us.

We can listen.

We can work.

We can notice other people.

We can be there.

That feels very different from dressing to impress someone.

It also doesn't mean ignoring the room.

What feels appropriate changes depending upon where we are and who is present. I dress differently for an ordinary day at home than I do for work. A day on a school campus may call for something slightly different than a meeting in an administrative office.

That isn't necessarily conformity.

There is a quiet authority in understanding where you are and choosing how you want to enter that space.

Maybe that is what I'm really curating.

Not a perfect wardrobe. I'm not even sure I believe in one anymore.

A closet should have some movement in it. Something new comes in. Something that no longer feels right goes out. A beautiful skirt waits for the top that hasn't appeared yet. A color suddenly becomes interesting. The seasons change. Bodies change. Hair turns gray. Lives change.

The collection moves because we do.

Fashion can still be part of that. I enjoy fashion. I enjoy looking at beautiful clothes and seeing what other women are wearing. Inspiration is wonderful.

But perhaps the authority has to come back home.

Look outward for ideas.

Then come back to yourself.

Does it fit my body?

Does it fit my life?

Does it feel good?

Does it belong in the environments I move through?

Does it feel like me?

There is something almost spiritual about the discernment involved.

Not because a skirt is spiritual.

Because learning to recognize yourself is.

And perhaps that's the thread I've been following without realizing it.

I'm not trying to create myself through clothing.

I'm paying attention to the person who is already here.

And then I'm getting dressed.