Retro clothing

I read an article, Adventures in my Wardrobe, about how we all have gobs of clothes hiding out in our closet as if they were in a witness protection program (or is it a witless protection program)—clothes that we never wear, and yet we hold onto for dear life. Because, memory. 

The author, Anne-Marie Hoeve, decided go on an archaeological dig in the back of her closet, and daylight all those old clothes she never wears. Her experience with her old clothes was like opening up a time capsule. The paradigm shift of memory and nostalgia head-butting with time present, made for a lively tale. 

The memories Hoeve experienced while wearing old clothing made for an intriguing anthropological study, as the association of clothes and memory is profound, if not downright irrational at times.

Like the odor of violets, old clothes can invoke the memories of the dead. It’s like hearing old music again. Loving Spoonful’s Happy Together telescopes me back to my 2nd corridor locker at Drake High School. Every time. I like my men young and and my clothing old—I used to joke that I only wore clothing of the dead, so as to keep their memories alive. There’s more than a little truth to that.

Every few years I go through my really old clothes and wear them again, after an extended sabbatical, they seem like new again, so I’m hesitant to toss the old stuff out. I hate to part with my retro clothes. OK, so call them antique clothing. But they give me joy. That crazy OCD minimalist organizer and delclutterist guru who arranges books by color, Marie Kondo, would not approve.

Something I haven’t worn in five or ten years, is dragged out of the giveaway bag, and becomes a new favorite again. Especially with summer clothes. That old mirrored rayon top with the over-dyed embroidery from the $5 box at Tienda Ho on Telegraph Avenue in 1999 that hasn’t seen daylight in decades, suddenly became a new favorite during the heat wave, despite my cousin‘s dismissive sniffing.

Or a recent score of string pants from Savers totally matches that sparkly plaid Victoria’s Secret nightshirt dress and completes it—as if it’s been waiting all these years for the stars to align to this particular moment in time. Ok, so they’re too big. Maybe the black leggings are a better match. I look less like a plaid oversized Easter bunny terrorizing the neighborhood.

And the sea foam green cashmere poncho, a street find (some dead lady’s stuff), perfectly matches the new GV jeans I bought during an impulsive pre-COVID-19 moment after I had finally left my abusive partner of 20 years. I had stuffed them into the giveaway bag because the memory association was too painful. But the sweet cashmere poncho reclaimed them for me. You bet I will wear them now, come sweet May again.

Then there are all those clothes that I bought on a big Savers binge (every single store in Oahu) right before COVID struck, and they’re still sitting in my drawer. Especially the tops and T-shirts. What looked good in Hawaii didn’t translate well to Northern California. And I wonder, what was I thinking at the time when I bought them? 

What memory niche were those clothes fulfilling? If I can’t answer, they are often the first to go into the giveaway pile. Not the old stuff. It endures. It holds. It has history and style. Not to mention, stories. I also keep an ongoing slushpile of clothes destined for the senior center or thrift shop, and if I get “new” clothes, then some old clothes must go in the pile. Sort of an eye for an eye, or a leg for a leg. 

I brake for roadside clothes piles. Nearly all of my “new” clothes are cast-offs, whether from the thrift store or from the street corner. Except for pants and smalls. Finding jeans that fit is a challenge. I have no butt or hips so my pants fall off. I wind up giving most pants away. Ever since Victoria’s Secret quit using cotton, replacing underwear is hit and miss. Mostly miss. I have a latex allergy so most synthetics are out. 

By recycling old clothing, and by buying little else new, I am not contributing to the clothing glut threatening to sink our rapidly warming planet. And I only wear natural fibers whenever possible, so no petrochemicals. Clothing manufacturing accounts for 10% of our annual carbon emissions worldwide—more than all those planes, trains and automobiles.

Somehow I managed to collect a considerable amount of clothing during COVID sequestration. As folks emptied out their closets onto street corners, I rummaged. I scored. I dragged it all home. The alpaca wool dress. The gorgeous tie-dye top I needed for a Spring Arts photo shoot. The spangly jeans. But, come December, I gave away 2 dozen jeans and an equal number of tops. Not to mention all the old shoes I never wear. 

Certainly our COVID time-out has changed my sense of style. Getting dressed became optional as was getting out of bed. My flannel nighties paired with an oversized cashmere sweater became my go-to outfit. Even for those Zoom calls. Forget about underwear. I’m only into wearing comfortable clothing. If it hurts, it goes. So, I had six massive black heavy duty garbage bags-worth of giveaway stuff to donate this year. But the more precious cargo needed to find live donors, the cashmere sweaters, the down vest, the jewelry all found homes with friends.

Soon I will need to face the music and purge those gauzy dresses and gypsy skirts popular in the 1980s and 1990s lurking in the back of the closet. I put them on and take them off again—especially after I’ve walked right up the front of my dress on the stairs, or merrily dragged the hem along outside my car door. But I love ethnic prints and batik material. Because they were left undisturbed in the back of the closet, generations of mice have artistically chewed on the hems. One makeover dress became an infinity scarf, another became a summer top.

Getting rid of my shoes was much easier than I thought. I’m so princess and the pea when it comes to shoes. If they hurt, I won’t wear them. So far, I have five pairs of suede fur-lined Ugg style boots and almost no flats or fancy shoes. Everything else, including the cowboy boots, went into the giveaway bag. It might be a barefoot summer.

I draw the line at those rare shoes, the black suede 1940s style wedgies I will probably never wear again. I can’t wear heels. I get altitude sickness and my poor knees can’t stand the pressure. But the wedgies go with my 1940s green embroidered cherry dress that once belonged to Charlie Musselwhite’s wife, Henri. All the other sandals, dress flats and heels went into the pile. But not the dead lady’s Jimmy Choos. The dead lady’s Jimmy Choos stay. OK?

With thanks to Indu Kline