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How I Let Go of the Clothes I Saved for My Imaginary Daughter
12
Oct
Oct
“Great savings.” In suburban Boston in my early days, those two words were clutch. They’ll bounce around in the stands after a nail-biting soccer game. They staggered around the cafeteria when a Twizzler nearly fell to the floor. But they make the most sense, at least to me, when applied to my first love – vintage clothing.
“Great savings.” In suburban Boston in my early days, those two words were clutch. They’ll bounce around in the stands after a nail-biting soccer game. They staggered around the cafeteria when a Twizzler nearly fell to the floor. But they make the most sense, at least to me, when applied to my first love – vintage clothing.
“Amazing Savings” was for my mother when she pulled a leather trench from our attic, made by my grandfather (a leather factory foreman) in the 70s. “Amazing savings” is for my dad when he salvaged a vintage Marimekko dress from our neighbor’s dilapidated barn. And “great savings” for me, when I found an original DVF wrap dress at a yard store for $5 and wore it to class feeling like a movie star.
The answer is, “Why don’t you save that?” Save for the discarded clothes. Among the things missing: my mother’s embroidered bell bottoms, actual disco heels, a leather mini dress with a Grateful Dead skull. Seeing the faded photos of my mother in these pieces made me understand that before becoming a parent, she was a human being. I will never know her fully, and it breaks my heart. It also gives me a mission: to store all my designer clothes for my future children, once I can actually afford them.
That first happened in 2005. It was late enough in the digital age for blogs, but early enough for the NFT to look like a typo instead of a Gucci pitch. There’s no supermarket in sight, the clothes themselves might be avatars, and oh my goodness I’ve got some good stuff: a Marc Jacobs bubble dress first seen on Gemma Ward; a bunch of Luella Bartley’s punk evening gowns; Miu Miu’s cat print dress; a python skin bag from Fendi; A.P.C.’s oh-so-Sedgwick leopard coat, bookmarked on MySpace (MySpace!) Until I save enough to buy it. But this was a near-birth experience, so I saw the future in a dream instead. In it, I was a mother to a little girl. She did all the things I used to do – scream Bangles lyrics on the swing, sneak a Stephen King novel in sixth grade. But gradually, my dream-me was covered with tiny, patchy handprints. My imaginary daughter ran away, screaming, “I don’t have to love you! I’m not asking you!” In my dream, I knew everything about this girl, but I didn’t know anything. I woke up choking with rage I was grateful I could blame the blood.
The stains of that nightmare fade (mostly) by my mid-30s, in part because the women I truly admire have achieved as much as my parents and people. Spending time with them, and their (admittedly amazing) kids, makes me dare to re-imagine a future with them. “I can still be a mom,” I would tell my therapist. “If I find the right partner… if I start teaching college… if I join a kibbutz… if I sell the novel and the movie rights together… if it’s a kibbutz but not, like, * religion… *if I marry for money…if I divorce for more money…if I am even 40 years old”.
Against all the Vegas odds, it actually happened – I mean hitting 40 – and I celebrated my two-year anniversary with my boyfriend. We are very different, but when I look at him, every cell in my body says, “Yes.” We talked early and easily, about our future desires: role-playing theater projects (me), big marathon records (him) and a fledgling plan to live on. around the world. For all of those reasons — and a few more that I don’t want to share without the tequila, sorry — we’re planning a life that doesn’t include parenting. I feel strangely at peace about that choice, especially since we have made it so honestly, and with great hope and excitement for our common future. But now there’s a new problem: Half of our living space is crammed with clothes for my imaginary daughter, instead of the space for our real lives. Something has to give, which means I’m giving away my clothes. It’s hard and weird, but it’s the only way.
So far, here’s the tally: Five Jeremy Scott x Longchamp items seized by my goddaughter, Madison. Two Chloé lace blouses for cousins adapted by Y2K TikTok. A bunch of Fiorucci sent to a fashion student I mentored. A Hello Kitty x AntiSocial Social Club t-shirt, currently worn by a five-year-old as a super cool dress – my high school friend’s daughter – on her way to kindergarten. D
“Amazing Savings” was for my mother when she pulled a leather trench from our attic, made by my grandfather (a leather factory foreman) in the 70s. “Amazing savings” is for my dad when he salvaged a vintage Marimekko dress from our neighbor’s dilapidated barn. And “great savings” for me, when I found an original DVF wrap dress at a yard store for $5 and wore it to class feeling like a movie star.
The answer is, “Why don’t you save that?” Save for the discarded clothes. Among the things missing: my mother’s embroidered bell bottoms, actual disco heels, a leather mini dress with a Grateful Dead skull. Seeing the faded photos of my mother in these pieces made me understand that before becoming a parent, she was a human being. I will never know her fully, and it breaks my heart. It also gives me a mission: to store all my designer clothes for my future children, once I can actually afford them.
That first happened in 2005. It was late enough in the digital age for blogs, but early enough for the NFT to look like a typo instead of a Gucci pitch. There’s no supermarket in sight, the clothes themselves might be avatars, and oh my goodness I’ve got some good stuff: a Marc Jacobs bubble dress first seen on Gemma Ward; a bunch of Luella Bartley’s punk evening gowns; Miu Miu’s cat print dress; a python skin bag from Fendi; A.P.C.’s oh-so-Sedgwick leopard coat, bookmarked on MySpace (MySpace!) Until I save enough to buy it. But this was a near-birth experience, so I saw the future in a dream instead. In it, I was a mother to a little girl. She did all the things I used to do – scream Bangles lyrics on the swing, sneak a Stephen King novel in sixth grade. But gradually, my dream-me was covered with tiny, patchy handprints. My imaginary daughter ran away, screaming, “I don’t have to love you! I’m not asking you!” In my dream, I knew everything about this girl, but I didn’t know anything. I woke up choking with rage I was grateful I could blame the blood.
The stains of that nightmare fade (mostly) by my mid-30s, in part because the women I truly admire have achieved as much as my parents and people. Spending time with them, and their (admittedly amazing) kids, makes me dare to re-imagine a future with them. “I can still be a mom,” I would tell my therapist. “If I find the right partner… if I start teaching college… if I join a kibbutz… if I sell the novel and the movie rights together… if it’s a kibbutz but not, like, * religion… *if I marry for money…if I divorce for more money…if I am even 40 years old”.
Against all the Vegas odds, it actually happened – I mean hitting 40 – and I celebrated my two-year anniversary with my boyfriend. We are very different, but when I look at him, every cell in my body says, “Yes.” We talked early and easily, about our future desires: role-playing theater projects (me), big marathon records (him) and a fledgling plan to live on. around the world. For all of those reasons — and a few more that I don’t want to share without the tequila, sorry — we’re planning a life that doesn’t include parenting. I feel strangely at peace about that choice, especially since we have made it so honestly, and with great hope and excitement for our common future. But now there’s a new problem: Half of our living space is crammed with clothes for my imaginary daughter, instead of the space for our real lives. Something has to give, which means I’m giving away my clothes. It’s hard and weird, but it’s the only way.
So far, here’s the tally: Five Jeremy Scott x Longchamp items seized by my goddaughter, Madison. Two Chloé lace blouses for cousins adapted by Y2K TikTok. A bunch of Fiorucci sent to a fashion student I mentored. A Hello Kitty x AntiSocial Social Club t-shirt, currently worn by a five-year-old as a super cool dress – my high school friend’s daughter – on her way to kindergarten. D
