***
I
pride myself in my appearance, as most women do, but I often find as a twenty
something college student, I don't have it in my budget to keep up with my
desire to be “fashionable.” Quite frankly, the aspects of fashion that are
marketed to women today run rampant with the gluttony of consumerism; they
leave us with a constant appetite for more, coupled with an everlasting sense
of inadequacy. The industry is built upon short product lifecycles, rapidly
changing trends, and mass production. The consumerism birthed from the constant
change of season evokes a fear among many consumers that their looks will be “past-season”
and therefore, the vicious cycle continually repeats itself.
***
As I walk upon the perfectly shiny marble tiles, I take in
the eerie neatness of the venue. Each purse hangs at precisely the same height,
methodically organized by designer, color and size. Each sweater lies perfectly
upon a decorated table, not a wrinkle in sight. The walls are littered with
flawlessly airbrushed oversized images of men and women clad with the hottest
brands of the season. Like a jigsaw puzzle, the racks of neatly arranged
clothes fit together and form a sea of bright colors across the sales floor. My
eyes meet the feet of a plastic mannequin, posed awkwardly upon a table. I scan
the molded body, pondering how such a tiny waist could even fit the smallest
woman’s size. I walk around the table, still staring at the plastic “woman,”
and I notice the clothing has been pinned to the rail-thin mannequin, painting
a facade of what one will look like upon slipping into the sweaters that have
been so perfectly aligned at its feet. I cannot help but shake my head and let
out a chuckle; my senses have been awoken to the superficiality of the fashion
industry.
***
It is
like clockwork; the day after Christmas storefronts become flooded with the
latest spring trends. Cropped pants in vibrant colors, printed plastic galoshes
and flirty tank tops fill the store windows when the average outside
temperature has barely reached 45 degrees. After St. Patrick’s Day has passed,
swim suits begin to invade the shelves of all the department stores, accosting
shoppers before the first daffodil even blooms. The sea of swim suits are
accompanied by racks upon racks of crop tops, cut off jeans and a slew of
summer time accessories because God forbid you wear the same straw sunhat as you
did last summer. From there, by the time you have acquired your fresh new straw
hat and string bikini, Nordstrom demands that you purchase the latest line of
light knit sweaters because it is June and fall is just around the corner. By
the time you find yourself equipped for fall, storefronts transform around
September with snow boots and obnoxiously puffy jackets; the farmer’s almanac
says it is going to be a terrible winter so you must buy a new $200.00 coat in
order to survive. And that brings you back, full circle, to the day after
Christmas where the newest line of spring clothes emerge and the cycle repeats
again.
Many
Americans blind themselves to the fact that almost nothing they purchase
within the textile industry is actually American-made. ABC news published an
intriguing story last year about the diminishing “Made in America” tags within
the fashion industry which contained a startling statistic; according to the
2010 census, nearly 100 percent of American textiles are imported, up from 52
percent in 2000. The constant change in seasons has exponentially increased
demand for all things new; this combination has led to a toxic environment for
those working in the sweatshops that fight to keep their heads above the latest
trend in order to fulfill what we, as consumers, are demanding. The
implications of our gluttonous consumerism reach much farther than our borders.
The global fashion industry is a multibillion dollar operation yet the free2work
program, advised by the International Labor Forum, published a report in 2012
that deems only 2 percent of the top 50 companies in the fashion industry
provide their workers with a living wage. That means that 98 percent of the “leaders”
in fashion industry are condoning unfair, unjust and arguably inhumane wages
for their workers. When we continue to buy into the rapidly revolving seasons
of fashion in large scale department stores, we are inadvertently supporting
human rights abuses amongst many other ethical violations. Fortunately, as
consumers, there are ways in which we can do our part in taking a stand against
the expectations of the fashion industry and simultaneously be kinder to not
only our Earth but also to ourselves.
***
As I
push open the door, a wave of adrenaline rushes through my veins. Immediately,
the comfortingly musty, mothball-laced air strikes me. My inner-fashionista is
in full-force, ready to scavenger every nook and cranny, and pounce on the
latest piece of second-hand prey. I make my first lap around the scuffed up
tile floor, keeping a careful eye out for any texture or color that calls to me.
As I peruse through the racks of shoes, the most perfect pair of pointed toe,
black leather pumps come into my peripheral view. The tag reads Michael Kors,
$6.98 and they’re in near mint condition. I almost begin to hyperventilate. I
kick off my shoes, slip my feet inside and relish in the perfect fit. Bubbling
with excitement, I head back to the clothing racks, scanning through decades of
fashions. The textures, colors and styles intrigue me; polyester, silk, cotton,
and the occasional unidentifiable tag-less garment all intermingled on one
rack. Upon inspecting each piece, I can’t help but think about the story which
surrounds each. Where was it worn? Why was it purchased? How did that delicate
tear get there? As the hum of a scratchy 80’s radio station dances upon my
ears, I take in the sheer volume and variety that is placed in front of me.
Suddenly, in the midst of my perusal, I am struck by the most gorgeous
shade of royal blue I have ever laid my eyes upon. I pluck this breath-taking
dress off the rack and read the tag, Tahari by Arthur Levine, $8.98. I swoon.
It's a size two. I sigh. All hope is not lost, it doesn't look that small. I rush to the fitting room;
I must try it on. Stripping off my clothes as fast as humanly possible, I jump
into the luscious, regal fabric, closing my eyes as I attempt to zip it up. I
stand in the middle of the four foot by four foot dressing room; no mirror in
sight. No mirror is necessary because I can feel the flawless fit. If there was ever a moment I felt like I was
in heaven, this is it.
***
My
passion for thrifting began as a child; Saturday mornings, my Mom and I would
scavenger our way around town looking for another man's trash to make into our
very own treasure. Through our experiences in bargain hunting, I have developed
a keen eye for finding beauty and value in all things. A tiny hole in a blouse
can easily be sewn back together, a little mud on the heel of a shoe can
effortlessly be clapped off and a small stain on a pair of $100.00 jeans can certainly
be removed. These experiences have enlightened me to the unrealistic
expectations of the fashion industry and the detriments that they bestow upon
the confidence of shoppers. Moreover, in the current state of our economy, few
people have the time or money to invest in conforming to what society expects
in terms of their dress. Thrifting has become my way of "looking the
part" in various facets of my life. From casual to professional, thrifted
threads have aided me in developing my own sense of individuality while bidding
the fashion industry a polite “f” you.
***
Caffeinated
and bubbling with anticipation, Mom and I turn down an old red dirt road; the
truck bounces up and down as we attempt to dodge the plethora of potholes. We
pull into a make-shift parking lot and slowly look toward one another. We both
let out a nervous giggle and wonder if we are in the right place. We begin to
approach the large white building which we believe to be a church thrift store.
No sign on the door, no people bustling around and no vehicles; what the hell
is this? Dying to find out what lurks beneath the cracking lead paint; we
slowly open the creaky door and find ourselves in what I would call a “one of a
kind” thrift shop. There are three older ladies who take a few seconds to greet
us because they are obviously so surprised to see that customers have actually
found their off-the-beaten-path location. After recovering from their initial
shock, the ladies accompany Mom and I as we peruse the racks of true vintage
clothing. Each garment we encounter takes us back to a memory. I take a
beautiful ivory silk blouse off the rack and hold it up in the sunlight,
carefully inspecting it for damage. It is in pristine condition and it evokes
something I am so intensely draw to but I cannot seem to put my finger on what it is.
My mom turns around and says, “That looks just like Ms. Wynn!” That is
precisely it; the same style that our delicate old neighbor wore each
time I showed up at her doorstep in my bare feet, hoping for a piece of that
sweet, old-people candy. This is what the art of thrifting is all about: pure nostalgia.
***
When
I walk into a thrift store, I am not accosted by a slew of size zero models,
tightly wrapped in constricting fabrics which would never flatter a normal
woman’s body the way they flatter a plastic molded manikin. Instead, I am left
with racks and bins of clothing that leave me with the freedom and power to
style them however I please. I can mix and match any style, pattern, color or
texture without being glared at by some perfectly shaped plastic woman,
awkwardly posed in the middle of a store. The “anything goes” culture of
thrifting is empowering; there are no seasons, no fanciful displays and no
overbearing commissioned clerks persuading you to run up your credit card bill.
The options are endless in a thrift store because you never know what might
make its way to the sales floor. My
fellow shoppers certainly never fight me for the last of a particular piece
because every single item is truly one-of-a-kind. Thrifting usually takes me to
parts of town I would not have otherwise explored, exposing me to a plethora of
diversity I would never encounter in a Bloomindales. Moreover, within my
thrifting escapades, I am inadvertently fighting all that the fashion industry
constantly begs me to submit to. I shop through racks filled with the fashions
of the past. Garments which the fashion industry has long deemed “past season”
fill my closet and I walk away with a contented mind and happy wallet. When you
allow yourself to step outside of the comfort of consumerist department store
culture, you are exposed to a world where you have the power to deem what is in
fashion to you at that very moment. 
you need to send this article to a fashion or women's magazine, or maybe a "green bean" magazine. Bet you can get published.
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