Glamour Fits & Calling Quits

a case for outfit repeating

On Saturday morning I went for a walk with the retinol cream that I had applied the night before still coating my face. The bright January sunshine reminded me of a fact that anyone who spends money on retinol should know: it is never to be worn in the sun. Instead of returning to my apartment, washing my face, and donning sunscreen like a civilized modern woman, I continued on and allowed this lapse to become the catalyst for an emotional spiral about the implications of being the kind of person who doesn’t wash their face in the morning.

My spiral didn’t come from just the retinol. The night before, I’d agonized over my wardrobe for the better part of an hour until I succumbed to the all consuming plight of a Glamour Fit. My task was simple enough: get dressed for an event in something that keeps weather in mind, makes me look attractive but approachable, and, most importantly, communicates my authentic essence. Usually I love getting dressed because it’s an opportunity for creativity, curating something for strangers to perceive. An outfit says something without me having to speak, rich soil for someone who hides behind shyness. But on Friday night, every garment I own turned into something hideous and completely wrong. My closet ended up in a heap on my bed where it took the form of a living breathing monster who taunted me with my own most vicious thoughts.

The term ‘Glamour Fit’ was coined, as far as I know, by Charlie’s family. It’s the self deprecating emotional state that results from my above mentioned task going awry. Glamour Fits manifest differently for everyone. They can yield sweat, anger, tears, complete and total numbness, or some combination of all of the above. I’m extra susceptible if there’s a time crunch or if it’s been a while since I’ve had a proper meal. For some, Glamour Fits occur when they are grasping at a semblance of confidence during a time of general insecurity. For others, a Glamour Fit is the event that spurs their bout of diffidence.

Eventually I dressed myself in all black like I was in mourning. And I was in mourning: my self confidence was so far away it may as well have been dead. To make up for what felt like a mediocre representation of my most authentic self, I put on mascara. I never wear mascara. When I boarded the train to Manhattan, I was still lamenting my unremarkable outfit when I rubbed my eye socket hard with my right pointer knuckle and it came away covered in black ink. Perfect. If I were a man, I thought, I would wear the same pair of jeans every day and have time to do things like itch my eyeball without consequence or learn how to grill slabs of meat.

I was an hour and a half late to the event, and when I returned home the pile of clothes was still on my bed.

TikTok is out for me this week. I was consuming too many videos of women in my city whining about Hinge or boasting the effects of skincare products that will never make my face look as dewy as theirs. I know I know, they don’t wear retinol outside. TikTok was supposed to be the social media platform that finally left my self-esteem alone, but my intrusive thoughts must somehow be meddling with my algorithm because recently the app has been making me feel like shit. I’ve willingly bought into social media for years because I like presenting myself in little boxes. I experience my surroundings like my eyes are frames, which is why I find photography so soothing. But it feels like there’s something else lurking in these waters now, something darker. The residue from my Glamour Fit? Perhaps. That we’re in the pits of winter and I’ve forgotten what it feels like to have a suntan or wear shorts? I don’t know, it feels bigger.

When I applied the retinol cream I did so meticulously, stalling the task of returning clothes to hangers. For a Friday night in this town, it was early. Before midnight. I’m the one who balks at the argument that this is the time (your 20s) and place (New York City) to stay out until dawn and throw caution to the wind. If that’s your jam then rock on, but never in my adulthood have I had the desire for this to be my consistent lifestyle and, until Friday night, I’d remained steadfast in these beliefs. But I was fragile and my values suddenly felt flimsy. I locked eyes with myself in the mirror as I rubbed the cream in clockwise motions. Was I totally lame for getting into bed before midnight on a Friday to knit and listen to my audiobook? Don’t answer that question.

When I returned from my walk on Saturday morning, I washed my face. I thought maybe I could become someone who does this habitually. I know that I am capable of changing my habits because I’ve done it before. In November, I imposed a strict rule upon myself: no purchasing any clothing for one month. Not even thrifting. And I succeeded. Since December, with the exception of a few thrift runs while I was home and a new set of pointelles, I still haven’t purchased any clothes.

Historically, a Glamour Fit would trigger my impulsivity and lead me to buy something just to avoid future fits. A form of self soothing. But I’ve learned that these impulsive purchases have done nothing to make me feel better about my personal style. I’ve shopped almost exclusively second hand or from ethical companies for years, and this used to be my justification for making a Poshmark offer or frequenting my favorite consignment stores. Now, it’s not just Glamour Fits or social media that leave me yearning for new articles of clothing. Simply existing in Brooklyn does it, where chic individuals on subway platforms make my Depop search bar start twitching. Consumerism has made us feel drab for not injecting our wardrobes with fun new pieces at regular intervals. But friends, this is not sustainable and it never has been.

After a November of wearing what I already have, I was not only totally fine, but I felt good about my wardrobe. Yes, our wardrobes shift over the years, but this can happen slowly. With intention. This means that Glamour Fits come not from what we lack in our things, but from how we are feeling on a deeper level. Duh.

Outfit repeating. This is what it comes down to. I’ve preached outfit repeating for years, but never has it felt more relevant. It’s how people used to do it in the olden days. It’s giving your clothes the love they deserve. It’s how you get pieces to look deliciously worn in. It’s personal style in its truest form. And now, it’s an act of resistance! Content of people wearing outfits made up of totally different pieces every day or detailing their 20 step skincare routine has created an unrealistic metric that leaves us hungry for more things, like retinol cream, which is interfering with everything.

How we spend our money during the next four years is important. I’m not telling you to stop buying clothes (maybe you already have your impulsive tendencies under control or are blessed to be without them), but I do think we could all benefit from first trying to work with what we already have. Those of us who are lucky enough to have a Glamour Fit be the at the forefront of our concerns right now are the ones who should be probing these questions.

And: if a Glamour Fit does come for you, be kind to yourself. You have everything you need. Take a breath, chug a glass of water, leave your phone in another room and try to lose yourself in a goddamn book.

Here’s me as I decided to stop using retinol and start wearing the same pair of jeans every day: