Some Fall Fashion Looks For Very Specific Occasions
Fall weather, as we’ve complained before, makes it nearly impossible to get dressed on a normal, average morning, let alone if you have something “special” going on. If you ever find yourself in these very specific situations, here’s what you’ll wear.
Sam, who you met on Tinder, is your soulmate. You know he’s your soulmate because you’ve spent enough fucking time looking for one, and you’re sick and tired of Hinge and Tinder and Bumble and Stumble and Happn and “Hey, wanna fuck?”
Sam, meanwhile, is stable. He has a job. Someone pays him money to do something, and he does it well. Sam doesn’t make you want to throw his shit on the sidewalk in anger every time you spend a weekend together. Sam is fine. He makes you laugh, sometimes. He gets up and goes to the fridge for water when you ask him nicely. You cat doesn’t hate him and sometimes, when you’ve spent enough time together, he’s totally fine with sitting in silence while you read, blissfully, on the other end of the couch. You’ve kept him around long enough to cautiously start using “We” instead of “I” when talking about events that are in the medium-far future.
He has most of his teeth — he’s missing one, but it’s way in the back, and you can’t really see it — and all of his hair. He seems to really like you. When he invites you to a wedding in New Hampshire in October, you think to yourself, as the sun glints thru the trees and a breeze that smells of woodsmoke ruffles your hair, “I might as well try to marry him.”
Your Look: A jumpsuit and some clogs that you find terribly uncomfortable, but wore anyway for stability on the grassy knoll. The leather digging into your flesh will always remind you of the time you gave in to possibly marrying someone that seems fine, you guess.
“We’re going apple-picking this weekend,” your friend tells you. “It’s fucking autumnal outside.”
You hate apple-picking, pumpkin-picking, corn mazes and hay rides. Why willingly subject yourself to physical labor under the guise of fun on a beautiful day, when you could be doing any number of things that you find much more enjoyable? Why surround yourself with the energy of screaming, pink-cheeked children, hopped up on cider donuts slipped to them by an exhausted parent?
Because you set your intentions this morning to “be nice and open to new things,” you agree. Lisa’s going to be there, though. You fucking hate Lisa.
Your Look: Those “fashion sweats” purchased after a week of obsessing over how you could make your existing shoe wardrobe work with them; a tee you love the fit of but hate the print on, turned inside-out; and the standard green army jacket that every woman over the age of 12 seems to have.
Halloween is on a Saturday this year, which means your peaceful plans of getting high and seeing a movie all by yourself will be ruined. The streets will be full of people dressed like Donald Trump, grinning wildly from ear to ear, swinging from lampposts. But your friend’s friend is having a party. You hate Halloween — the spectacle, the expectations — but you love a house party. House parties contain possibilities. They’re basically the essence of all good nights distilled into one single event where you technically don’t have to wear shoes. Bumping into strangers, drinking for cheap indoors, sneaking cigarettes on a crowded fire escape or in a backyard, dancing — it’s all there.
“You have to wear a costume,” your friend tells you. “They said you can’t come unless you wear a costume.”
Your Look: Those ripped leather leggings you bought five pounds ago and ripped 10 pounds later when you tried to squeeze into them; a saggy and soft black tee that comes down to your knees, but is too short to wear as a minidress; a slash of red lipstick, sunglasses indoors, a sneer. When people ask you what your costume is, you answer “salty” and pour yourself another drink.
No, you don’t want to go out with this very nice lawyer your sister found for you in her office — probably by sending an email with a picture of you from five years ago, being like “SHE’S REALLY NICE, I SWEAR” — but you’ll do it anyway because your sister still hasn’t lost that smug married glow and she’s been hitched for two fucking years already.
Your Look: What you wear to work every day: jeans with a hole in the knee that you made yourself — only suckers pay for pre-ripped denim — and a shirt that, upon closer inspection, is mostly unstained, save a tiny dot of kimchi under your left breast. Also, a sweater that you panic purchased at H&M on your way to the restaurant, to pull yourself together a little.
All you really want to do during your weekend back home is to bury your body deep in the cushions of the couch in the TV room and blow through this “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives” marathon that you found on the Food Network. Unfortunately, it looks like your mom really, really wants you to rake the leaves in the front. “It’s for a picture!” she says, brandishing a camera. “You used to love this when you were little!” To be fair, there are an awful lot of pictures of you doing this as a little kid, but for the record — you never actually enjoyed it.
Your Look: Hiking socks you stole from your dad, your sister’s mock trial sweatshirt and fleece sweatpants with an unfortunate “Nordic” print on them that you found in the back of her underwear drawer.