And yet, I am tragically attached to nearly all of it. This is most especially true of everything that’s retro or vintage. When I was a sophomore in college, I bought this brown leather purse at a second hand store ($9), and that purse has subsequently been to every country I’ve been to, and I actually can’t picture my passport anywhere but in that ONE pocket of that purse. Best of all, it’s super ugly, and yet somehow I still get compliments on it regularly. It was also regularly paired with my my tan London Fog raincoat ($11) from Moxi, a delightful vintage store that no longer exists. Proof:
There’s a peach skirt in that closet that’s polyester, handmade, and probably from the early 70’s ($13). The best thing about it? There are silky shorts under it sewn right in, thus making it the greatest skirt in the world.
I’ve worn a number of vintage dresses, the Lime Green Chiffon Toga ($19) the Blue Hippie Dress with white embroidery ($7. NO REALLY.) the emerald green number off of ebay ($23 with shipping) The pink floor length slip dress ($28)
So it only seemed appropriate that while my wedding dress is new and my accessories to it will be new, all much too paradoxical to my old fashioned wedding, for my engagements I will be wearing the most darling vintage black jacket, purchased today at Decades for one of my most abhorrent thrift shop totals thus far, $22. But trust me when I say, it was worth it. Eventually I will look at it in my closet against my variety of desperate attempts to impress some boys (Dan likes me in TEESHIRTS!) but mostly other girls, and know that, just like all the others, it was the impulsive, impractical, and utterly charming.
The reason I bother writing this is because in Washington DC, this was NOT a part of my life. I was often complimented for my colorful choices (that city is full of drab grey dressers) but with the exception of the divine peach pencil skirt, I never wore or shopped vintage. In Washington DC, the second hand shops are designer, couture, totally uninteresting. Like so many parts of my life, little dormant pockets of personality and electricity sparked back to life in this silly beehive. In more ways than one, that little black jacket is reclaimation.