Every season right after New York Fashion Week, I am granted an opportunity to indulge my fledgling narcissism and search for photos of myself to substantiate a bi-annual series, known unofficially as the “What I Wores.” Sometimes I am eager to do this work. Last September, for example, I felt like a new-but-old version of myself dressed proudly like a clown — a clown with purpose, who knows she’s a bag full of tricks. Other times (usually in February) it is somewhat mind-numbing because dressing through a snowstorm is kind of like having to deal with a cavity: inevitable, even though it seems to always catch you by surprise.
This season, though, I feel mostly impartial. I didn’t think very much about any of the outfits I wore before the fact, which is new for me given that I usually keep a running note in my iPhone of outfit ideas to pull from whenever I am stricken by a bout of un-inspiration. (Fashion week historically gets its own note of outfits.) The thinking, I guess, is that if I don’t know what to wear, I’ll put myself under pressure, crack under said pressure and then end up wearing something that makes me feel completely unlike myself. This year, I applied the “wing-it” method wherein I didn’t think at all about clothing until I was confronted with the daily obligation to get dressed. What I found is that I felt more like myself, for better (more entertaining outfit) or worse (not) — truly very comfortable for the entirety of the week. And so it goes that taking some pressure off, just doing you unabashedly without overthinking, seemingly wins again.