As someone who's already read enough magazines to fill three people's lives and who has archived, beginning from 1992, every magazine she has ever bought (you never know when you might need the October 1994 issue of Allure), it seemed only natural now to pen a style column myself. No, I will not comment Joan Rivers-style on everyone who walks down the library steps. No, I will not print "Do's and Don'ts" pictures (although admit it, it would be fun....). What I will look at is fashion as it applies to Tufts students, Bostonians, and fashionistas in general, creating a lovely sort of style-centered m?©lange, if you will, that will appear every Wednesday.
Today, this first dose of fashion, the inaugural Fashion Fix, concerns an issue near and dear to my heart, and something we've all had to deal with since coming to college. I admit I am something of a control freak. While I don't wash my hands obsessively or do things in three's, my before-bedtime ritual of checking my room for spiders takes me a full fifteen minutes, and I am known for my door-lock checking compulsions. However, one of my more mundane psychological quirks is my fear of lending clothes. Although it has not yet graduated to a full-blown phobia, my behavior concerning the borrowing of clothes does border on irrational. For example:
Roommate of three years: Wow, that snow's really coming downI wish I knew where my hat was. Can I borrow one of yours?
Me: (breath shortening) Huh?
Roommate of three years: I said, do you have a hat I can borrow?
Me: (thinking of all lovely hats possessed that might be stretched out/lost/dropped in a puddle by well-meaning roommate) Um, well I guess you can wear this one. If you really need one. (Hand over hat)
Roommate of three years: This one smells like mothballs and has a hole in it the size of my fist.
Me: (thinking of hat's grungy but loveable qualities) Um, can you actually not borrow that one?
Now I know college is a time of communal living. Want some food? Share some of mine. Need tip money for Kee Kar Lau delivery? It's in my wallet. Need a belt to go with those pants? Try next door.
I know you'll be careful with it. I know you'll give it right back. But you know what? All the time it's gone I'll be thinking about all the outfits that belt goes with and how it's unique and special and unlike any other belt in the world and how my wardrobe would fall apart without it, would lose some crucial communicating element, and I'd never ever find another one like it ever again. And chances are, I'll bother you so much about giving it back on time that you'll want to throw the belt in my frantic face and never borrow anything else from me again. Which means the belt is back. Mission accomplished.
No, I am not an only child with a sharing problem. I just know that nothing good comes from mixing clothes and friendships. For one, you are never as careful with someone else's clothes as you should be. Why? Because once they are on your body, they feel like your clothes. Everybody hates their clothes and wants new ones anyway. Second, just because some fabrics stretch doesn't mean they should. Case in point: friend likes author's gray zip-up lambswool sweater. Friend is also five inches taller than author and has wider arms, chest, and shoulders. Friend doesn't care and is obsessed with sweater. Author caves in and friend wears sweater for a week. Author still hasn't gotten sweater back to original size.
Clothes mold to the body. Your body. It will make you unhappy when they are returned molded to someone else's.
Third, no one realizes the gravity of a prompt return. This is the primary reason I am loath to lend clothes - because on the rare occasions on which I have, I never get them back.
There was the time, in fourth grade, when I lent Becca my pink suede belt with the big silver seashell buckle. It looked fantastic with all my pleated, acid-washed denim skirts and matched several of my beaded scrunchies. Never seen again.
When I was sixteen, there was Liza, a friend from camp who descended upon my house for five days straight. By the third day, it was unanimously decided that Liza needed a change of clothes. Pajama-soft green polo shirt and charming plaid pants were exchanged for promises of a prompt return and a pinkie swear. That bitch owes me her pinky.
The last trauma happened sophomore year in college, the year a clinically schizophrenic twenty-four year old senior moved in next door. One Friday night she decided to add "dress-up" to her usual weekend festivities of getting drunk and mumbling into the couch. After barging into my room, she decided my favorite pink skirt would be the ideal thing to wear while hiding under her bed later that night. Not wanting to be spit at or clawed, I gradually steered her towards a more mundane wool skirt and camisole combination, which thankfully proved to be less than perfect given the activities and were returned promptly the next day, not a boiled bunny hair in sight. A rare happy ending.
We have a relationship, my clothes and I. We've done a lot together, seen a lot of things, and been a lot of places. I'd say memories are woven into their fabric, but that would be cheesy. At any rate, I'm very good at convincing myself that the oldest rag in my closet, when asked to be borrowed, is something near and dear and precious that will be worn tomorrow. Some call it separation anxiety. Others call it selfishness. I call it easier not to borrow my clothes.
