Here at the University of Virginia, we are a rather pragmatic bunch. We accept the advice of those who came before us, humbly acknowledging their store of expertise is better stocked than ours. And while I would like to think I am as sensible as the rest of them, there was one time I simply was not able to drink the Kool-Aid. This one fourth-year just didn’t have it right.
He told me: if you’re head over heels, slow down.
To him, I posed this: if I were really putting my level head over my heels to begin with, I wouldn’t be wearing heels at all. And if that’s true, the point is moot — I can very easily maintain my speed in flats.
It was clear to me he did not know much about being a woman.
It wasn’t the first time I didn’t see eye to eye with my peers on issues of fashion. Prior to pledging a sorority, the only Pulitzer I put much stock in was a prize, typically issued to top physicists and authors who did not seem to have any special affinity for bright, beachy patterns. Even now, I have trouble mustering the strength to shell out $248 for a dress that is distinctly mom-shaped.
Yes, the youthful prints do have a certain allure, bringing with them a sort of 1960s vineyard nostalgia, but, coming from someone who didn’t frequent any vineyards in the 1960s, I’d much prefer to put on a more reasonably priced sundress. Lillys will hide Foxfield stains, but, sadly, they’ll also hide you. It’s hard to stand out when you’re swimming in a sea of sailboats with 164 of your closest friends.
Were we not only recently in high school, when we would take passive-aggressive “twin pics” when our archenemy also showed up in stripes? Are we no longer doing that thing where we freak out when someone else wears our one-of-a-kind, mass-produced gown? I only wish someone could have told me we matured beyond such child’s play earlier in the year. I don’t even have a guise with which to cloak my hatred for my nemeses anymore.
But thank goodness for boys, right? I’ve always maintained every girl needs a few solid guy friends to remind her, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter if we mix black and navy. No matter how bad “blavy” may seem, there is always something much more catastrophic going on. Probably with the NCAA.
Yet much to my chagrin, U.Va. boys can actually be worse than the girls. Much, much worse.
Last semester, my friend Jake — name changed to protect masculinity — actually told me he could not come eat with me on the Corner because he was wearing basketball shorts, and, quote, “couldn’t be seen out like that.” I then waited for him to change into a collared shirt and khaki combo that would stand up to Qdoba’s strict dress code. I probably should’ve just invited someone else.
For better or for worse, Charlottesville is full of Jakes. With a 70 percent possibility spring is just around the corner, it seems the male mantra “sky’s out, thighs out” is truly beginning to take hold. Cargo shorts — which are apparently the college equivalent of simultaneously wearing a Snuggie, Crocs and a fedora to class — have been appropriately burned, and, as the creeks begin to thaw, salmon-colored shorts are really starting to make a splash. And then another splash. And then another. Honestly, does anyone at this school not own salmon-colored shorts?
Sometimes I yearn for the days when I dressed better than the boys around me. As bad as armholes that draped below belly buttons could be, there was a comfort in knowing no matter how many times a boy didn’t text you back, he still looked like the hobo to your Tyra Banks. Somehow, in a twist of events, they all discovered Vineyard Vines, and are now able to “k” you via text and look damn good while doing it. Please tell me: where is the justice in that?
Despite my crusade against fashion conformity, don’t expect me to stick out like a sore North Face around Grounds. Humans are a remarkably adaptable species, and, as such, I can sport Patagonia and a bubble necklace as well as the next girl. Who knows — maybe I’ll even find a Lilly for my Foxfield debut.
Yet even as I zip up my riding boots, there is one thing I know for certain: clothes are only as flattering as the personality of the person inside of them. I for one think that makes the girl in the cat sweatshirt pretty cool.
Julia’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at j.horowitz@cavalierdaily.com.
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