I found the top while thrifting. Everything else had been a bust, and my hands had started to feel like there was a slight film on them from touching endless racks of clothing. Even though I’m a self-proclaimed germaphobe, the mysterious stains I grazed seemed bearable after finding it, a quarter sleeve top in a rich and vivid shade of flamingo pink. I remember feeling as though I was transcending the liminal space that is The Salvation Army. Time stopped. It was just me and my new top against the world.
I decided to wear the blouse — which, at this point, I was spiritually connected to — on a random Tuesday. I was sitting in my English class, wearing my new top, and my hair was styled with little claw clips. After sharing my thoughts on the small group activity, which was a bust, my professor stopped to say something. She began complimenting me on the lovely shade of pink I was wearing. The room, normally frigid, suddenly felt inviting, like the warmth usually reserved for home-baked cookies. I was convinced that the universe was applauding me by sending someone to appreciate the beauty that was this top. This was all that consumed my thoughts for the rest of class and, justifiably, for the rest of the day.
I decided I would wear that very same top about a week later for a random club meeting, not because I needed another validating compliment, but because I genuinely loved the piece. Though, a compliment also would have been nice — even a silent little gesture from a friend would have sufficed.
Yet, I got absolutely nothing. It felt like whatever cosmic forces were out there had decided the top was only deserving of one positive remark. Would I ever feel that warmth of imaginary baked goods again? And, more importantly, had my compliments expired, the way strawberries seem to quietly wilt just hours after buying them? Or was this a fate exclusively reserved to my wardrobe?
After being slighted by the macrocosm of the universe, I began keeping a mental score whenever an article of clothing I own is complimented. And, eventually, I genuinely started to believe that there was an inverse relationship between how many times I wore an article of clothing and how often it was complimented.
The flamingo pink top is what sparked the entire investigation I later went on to conduct (the notes for which were taken exclusively in my head), but the horse sweater is what helped validate my toxic thinking. The horse sweater was purchased with the intent of channeling a Brittany S. Pierce carousel horse top moment, but it very much did not. The first time I wore it, styled with a chunky brown belt, I received plenty of love — but the fondness was short-lived. I ended up spilling something on it, and it lived in my laundry basket for some time. When I tried to recreate the success of the horse sweater’s debut, it fell so flat. It was as if the washer had taken away more than just the stain, but the sweater’s appeal.
Then came the Tommy Hilfiger windbreaker, which was thoughtlessly purchased on Depop, and that I only ever wore once. I was worried that after it was initially praised, nothing magical would happen the second time I took it for a spin. That fear forced me to retire the piece, and it sparked a rather uncomfortable realization: I wasn’t retiring things because they were outdated or expired; I was abandoning them because my compliments had dried up.
My mindset had subconsciously created a new and unhealthy fast-fashion cycle: purchase, premiere, await praise, then renounce and repeat. And, it turns out, I had become a compliment-obsessed maniac in the process.
Upon accepting this, I had to confront a much harder question: how do I keep enjoying and indulging in my outfits without feeding into the same harmful trend cycles I criticize others for partaking in? I want my style and pieces to be validated without feeling disposable. Like so many other shoppers, I don’t want my outfits to come with an expiration date; if fighting for the longevity of my clothing is an attempt at being more mindful and sustainable, then throwing the items away is completely out of the question.
So, what do I do? What do we do?
Something that’s started helping me extend my wardrobe’s shelf life and escape the mental fast-fashion mindset I’d established is buying fewer clothes. Despite being a shopaholic, this has been easier for me to do as I am currently the broke college student. On the rare occasion of actually making a purchase, I choose to invest in pieces that are more distinct to me and stray from microtrends to help keep that expiration date further away. Purchasing pieces tailored to my own style, and focusing on pieces that complement one another instead of the potential compliments they may individually garner shifted something in me. The clothes have begun lasting longer in my closet ever since — and, ironically, so has the applause. When something is timeless to you, it becomes immune to any expiration date.
Taking better care of my clothes has been helping me extend not just the social expiration date of my clothes but also the physical one, and it can help you, too. Clothes can indeed physically expire, like jeans ripping between the thighs or a new hole sprouting on one of the sleeves overnight. Proper care means depilling sweater sleeves after accidentally throwing something into the dryer that is air dry only, and hanging things up instead of just letting them marinate on the floor. It’s not glamorous, but being intentional with the clothes I already own is one of the best ways I’ve been practicing sustainable consumption.
I’ve also started paying attention to what my clothes are actually made of. I used to buy anything — even 100% polyester and pieces that were already damaged — under the delusion that I would get around to fixing it someday. What I forgot to remind myself was that I can’t sew, and it felt like every other oversized tee was just another excuse to mindlessly buy something. Now, I try to avoid anything stained, ripped or made of terribly cheap fabrics. The same way I steer clear of those near-spoiled strawberries in the supermarket, I’ve learned to keep those clothes that are halfway to a dumpster out of my closet. Sure, a more skilled seamstress might be able to revive these pieces, but for me, being more conscious of my consumption habits also means choosing fabrics that are durable and undamaged.
My clothes might always expire, but my desperate need for external validation shouldn’t be prioritized over sustainable shopping or spending. The only thing I have disposed of as of late is my slightly unhinged mindset that treated validation like currency. Because if the wardrobe I’m curating is going to last, I need to accept that not every outfit is enough to warrant applause — but if people still happen to compliment something I’m wearing, that’s just a plus I’ll never turn down.
Daily Arts Contributor Maryam Tobya can be reached at tobyam@umich.edu.
