I like dress codes. Knowing boundaries breed creativity, I often feel a little delighted at the prospect of instructions for what to wear. When I received an invite to a wedding this summer with a floral dress code, I was ready to raze every commercial center within striking distance. I don’t often gravitate towards floral patterns, so I was up for the challenge to find something that complied with the request but still felt me. I was either going to go with something a bit more romantic than normal, or, more likely, find a way to make flowers politely spicy. I started my search with plenty of lead time to the event so I stepped into the process with a sunny disposition and child-like sense of possibility.
I braved the weekend crowds and parking terrors of the Glendale Galleria/Americana behemoth multiple times. I repeatedly miscalculated which entrance was closest to the scant escalator offerings and walked thousands of extra miles from the Macy’s end to the Target end and over into the erratic Bloomingdale’s finger. I climbed from first floor to second and back again in an endless loop in search of some mystical floral masterpiece. I cruised up and down the southeastern-bending stretch of Sunset Boulevard both via automobile and on foot stopping in everything from eye-poppingly high-priced boutique to expectedly high-priced boutique to carefully curated vintage shop to musty second hand store that should probably offer a shower upon exit. I spent hours and hours scrolling through websites of thousands of floral dresses. Thousands and thousands. Honest—it’s the only part of this piece of writing that is not hyperbole. A terrifyingly endless abyss. And yet I was coming up with nothing.
A couple weekends in and, naturally, my relaxed state of mind and open-hearted enthusiasm for the process were nothing but a whisper of a memory from a happier time. I was frustrated. Tired. Older than I ever thought possible. Starting to…hate dress codes.
So I began to intellectualize my frustration. Figuring out what’s making you feel bad is the first step in trying to think your way out of it. For better or for worse, this is my most well-worn though unquestionably flawed coping strategy whenever my emotions have me feeling the teensiest bit uncomfortable (god forbid!).
Why was I so unsatisfied when there were so many perfectly workable floral dresses? Was it a lack of creativity in the fashion space or was I the problem? And most importantly, why did this feel like such an enormous decision? Somewhere between the Macy’s and the Target, possibly in front of the Journey’s, or maybe it was on a dirty sidewalk in Silver Lake dodging a pretentiously unleashed terrier mix and a pile of feces of unknown origin, I realized I was asking one garment to perform an incredibly heavy mental and emotional lift – to represent my entire essence as a human being.
I wasn’t bringing a plus one to the wedding. I was going to be walking into this event having never met most of the people there (as is the case with most weddings of course), and I didn’t have another person, be it a friend or romantic partner, to point to to say “We are here as a pair.” There was no other human being to act as a visual reference point for who I am. No other person whose outfit could also do my bidding. The only thing I would be able to point to was my own mystical, powerful, all-knowing floral garment. Yikes, no wonder I couldn’t find anything.
I don’t mind going to events alone/as a solo artist. Sure, it’s always a bit of a risk, but that’s part of the fun. And notably, when you go to something on your own and come out the other side alive, nobody can tell you anything. It’s a power move. But knowing this still wasn’t going to make me come to my senses in terms of relaxing about my outfit…or make finding a dress any easier.
So I gave it one more shot. One more afternoon of pounding the pavement and then I would order something cheap and hopefully workable off the internet. But there were good omens. Every store I wandered into that day was handing out some sort of freebee potion– the soap store was pouring mimosas, at a clothing store I was asked if I would like “a glass of vino verde or skin-contact orange” while I shop, and the candle store slipped me a sample pouch of weed gummies. A little tipsy and a bit dehydrated from walking alongside asphalt all day in the sun, I spotted a matching skirt set in the window of a store a block and a half from my apartment, and knew that it was exactly what I had been looking for. I went in, tried it on, and left the store having completely busted my budget but with no doubts about my decision. I went home, cracked open a free canned mezcal cocktail that I had pocketed at some point that day, and tried it on again in the mirror. Felt good.
I did nothing to deserve this win. I certainly did not accept that who I was as a person was more important than what I was wearing. This perfect outfit was not my reward for a remarkably insightful step towards self-actualization. I just got lucky and spent a lot of time looking. And you know, I’m glad I didn’t minimize the importance of this dress because it made the score more rewarding. I know it’s easy for me to say this having just added a tick to the victory column (but I’m going to say it anyway because this is my essay) – giving things weight for no real reason other than because we decide to is natural and respectable! Making a big deal out of things is a core part of the human experience and I don’t care if it’s silly. Sometimes it leaves us feeling unreasonably sad or frustrated or forces us to do things we don’t want to do. If I hadn’t found this dress, I would have put something on and relied on my personality to get me through the event (alarming!). But being a little bit dramatic about things also makes the victories sweeter. It’s why we tune into championship games. It’s why we spend so much time picking out outfits. And it’s why we show up to weddings.
Now I just have to find some shoes.
xo
Sam