Fall fashion trends (that you probably already have in your closet!)

I believe it was Oscar Wilde who said, “Do not fall in love with a man who doesn’t make you feel like the most awesome, incredible, baddest bitch on the block.”… those of course weren’t his exact words, but the sentiment was the same. You know what else can make you feel that way? A leather jacket. 

Seriously. I can be wearing sweatpants, and still feel like a stylish badass biker babe if I’ve got a leather jacket on. (I have never been on a bike – and by “bike”, I  of course mean motorcycle – so I don’t know what that really feels like, but this is the only way I can know how to describe it.) It’s like magic. While sweatpants in public say, “I can’t get my life together”, a leather jacket says, “This is OBVIOUSLY a style choice. And if you don’t get it, then you’re not as cool as I am.” 

I mean, don’t go out there wearing a leather jacket and sweatpants, you’ll look ridiculous. I’m just saying. If you want to feel like a badass, buy a leather jacket. I have five. Because I feel the frequent urge to badass it up in my everyday life. 

The problem is that I can’t wear ANY of them while it’s still 85 degrees outside. I’ve considered it – because, in my mind September = Fall, and Fall = Leather jacket time – but I’d rather not sweat off all my make-up and die of heatstroke. It sounds like a terrible way to go. 

But it’s almost OCTOBER. I mean, come on. While everyone else is hanging on to these last few *surprise* weeks of summer, I can’t wait to bundle up in scarves and the three new pairs of boots that I just bought. (Pro tip: if you really want to feel like a badass, put on a pair of boots with a leather jacket. Something about it makes me feel like I could really kick some bad guy booty. I mean, it would probably actually be harder – since I wouldn’t be able to run as fast in the boots, and the jacket would give me less range of motion – but you know what I mean.) 

This is when I get excited for Fall. It’s not the Pumpkin Spice whatever’s, or the football games every weekend, or the bonfires, or Halloween – it’s the clothes. Honestly. When I see the mannequins in Macy’s wearing scarves and plaid shirts and fuzzy sweaters and cardigans, it makes me feel relieved. My wardrobe options are about to triple. Everything’s going to be okay. My fashion identity is really coming together.

Department stores and fashion designers will try to trick you into believing they’re designing these hot new things. You have to keep up with the trends. You have to buy the sweaters with the holes cut out of the shoulders (I have yet to purchase one of these). You have to buy the sweaters with only ONE shoulder. (No thanks, I have yet to find some place where I could actually wear this.) You have to buy the hot new color for FALL. (The hot new color is purple. It’s the same every year. I read this once in a magazine years ago – “PURPLE is THE color for Fall this year!”and legitimately believed that I needed to buy a bunch of purple things. Ya know, so that people would think I was “in”. It took me a few years to realize this is the same every year. They probably use the same article every year. Purple is just a Fall color.) 

The majority of Fall fashion is the same every year. The basics don’t change much. And heavy duty clothes like sweaters and jeans usually hold up longer than those light-weight t-shirts you bought at the beginning of summer. So when you’re putting together your Fall outfits in a few weeks, remember the basics and you shouldn’t need to run out and go shopping.

How to make ANY outfit look good.

There were two things that I wanted to be as a high school freshman: a Varsity cheerleader, and the lead in the school play. As a quiet, mousy, afraid-to-even-raise-her-hand-in-class kind of kid, these seemed like totally normal things to want. I was too shy to ask a question during English class, but getting up in front of everyone during a basketball game and jumping around in a short skirt? That sounds GREAT! Sign me up. There was a guy I liked on the basketball team.

I mean, of course there were OTHER reasons I wanted to be a cheerleader – because it’s a SPORT. And a healthy extracurricular. And a great opportunity to build life-long friendships with my other cheer… mates? Cheermates? Is that a word? Cheer friends?

Whatever. It was mostly about the guy. And everyone knows cheerleaders are hot.

So I dragged my friend to try-outs with me – you know, because I was too afraid to go alone – and together we learned all of the basic chants, stunts, cheers, I think there was a dance involved? The only thing I can remember is thinking how they made everything look so much easier in “Bring It On”. I couldn’t even do a cartwheel, let alone the front handspring-stepout, roundoff back handspring-stepout I had planned to blow everyone away. You know, if I practiced enough. How hard could it be? It’s just, jumping around. On your hands.

I did the splits for my “stunt” portion during try-outs. That was one of the things – you had to do a “stunt”: a cartwheel, a roundoff, a handspring, you could even do a forward roll if you weren’t coordinated enough to do anything else. Which I wasn’t. But I chose to do the splits, because I decided that a forward roll might be too dangerous for someone inexperienced like myself.

Also I thought the splits would be more impressive. Which they would have been – had I actually done them, instead of whatever I did. Because what I did was slide down about halfway to the ground, until my knees started to bend and my legs made this triangle shape with the floor, and I was like “Ta-da!”

Hah. Hah. Hah. Oh, right, did I mention I’ve never been able to do the splits?

I was shocked (I know!) when I didn’t make the team. The squad? I don’t know, whatever. My dreams of becoming a Varsity cheerleader that year were squandered, and the only thing I had left – the ONLY other thing I wanted – was becoming the lead in the school play. Because, for some reason, I thought this would make me cool. “She’s the LEAD in the school play”, they’d say. “She’s going to be a star!” Like lead in the high school play is the first step to Broadway.

There was also a boy. In the drama club. And I liked him too, and wanted to impress him with my amazing acting skills, because I thought that I had amazing acting skills. Kind of like how I thought I could do the splits for my cheer try-out. I had amazing, and slightly unjustified, confidence as a fourteen year old.

Of course there were OTHER reasons I wanted to be in the school play. Because it builds a healthy level of charisma and increases skill in public speaking, and… it looks good on college applications? Probably? I don’t know. Whatever, we both know it was mainly about the guy.

How to purge your closet when you think you need everything in it.

Ugh. “Purge”. It’s one of those words like “moist” or… “moist”. It’s not the way it sounds, it’s just – you know, what it is. Purging stuff. I feel like I’m writing about my closet throwing up remnants of old college t-shirts and Target Mossimo tags. 

I’ve always thought the idea of “cleaning out my closet” sounded like a terrible idea. Like this monumental chore. Because it basically felt like opening up the door to my own personal landfill of Victoria’s Secret shopping bags (that I, for some reason, struggle to throw away) and shoes. So many shoes. WHY do I have so many shoes? I have two feet. I do not need twenty pairs of shoes. 

But, you know, some day, “I might wear them” – or so I tell myself.

I have clothes in there too. Some clothes. Not all of my clothes. A lot of them used to end up in piles on the floor. Because they wouldn’t fit in my closet. And the floor seemed like as good a place as any to keep them – you know, because I could see them. No sense opening up the pesky old closet and reminding myself what a mess it is in there. 

And then I moved in with my boyfriend. Who is not like the boys you met in college with McDonalds bags stashed under their beds and dirty clothes spilling out of the hamper (thank God) – he’s, like, an adult. He’s sanitary. And while I know he loves me, I figured it wouldn’t take long before he would get frustrated with me using my side of the closet as a landfill for VS bags and the bedroom floor to layout my clothes. All of my clothes. You know, so I can see them. Because you can’t do THAT when they’re in the closet. Too many other clothes in the way. Some shirt you love might be squeezed between two shirts you hate – and then you’ll miss it. And then you’ll be sad. 

Plus we have two closets, and he was nice enough to give me the larger one. So, like, I should PROBABLY take advantage of this kind gesture and actually, like, USE the closet space… ya know? 

But I knew what this meant: the big, scary task of getting rid of stuff. Most stuff, actually. (Okay, like a third.) Which is hard for someone like me, because every time I sort through clothes that I tell myself I need to donate, I think to myself, “But I might wear this! I just forgot I had it!” (It’s been in my closet for over a year with the tags still on it, but sure, I might wear it. I just need to remember that it exists.) So – without further ado (is it “ado” or “adieu”, I thought it was the second one, but Google said it’s spelled like AD-O) here are the steps that I’ve created to FINALLY get rid of stuff in your closet that you LITERALLY DON’T NEED AT ALL but, for some reason, think that you do. 

How to be a fashion blogger.

I don’t know how to ask someone to take a picture of me “for my blog” without sounding like a… like a total… what’s the mom-approved-PG word for douchebag? Because that’s what I sound like. A pretentious douchebag. It’s hard for me to take myself seriously when I’m saying, “Hey will you take a bloggy picture of me in front of this fountain?”… which is usually followed by, “What should I be doing? Should I, like, look off into the distance? Or, look over my shoulder? Should I smile? Is that weird? Smiling is weird, right?”

Sure. Smiling in a picture? Totes weird. Only serial killers and ax murderers do that.

Rarely is this magical moment complete without me asking, “Is it cute? Will you take another one? What should I do with my hands?” 

I never know what to do with my hands. And I alwaaaays ask if it’s cute. Like the person behind the camera is ever going to tell me:  “I don’t know, Jenn. You’re twenty-seven years old and still pretending to be a model. Is THAT cute?”

It’s not cute. In fact, the whole thing usually feels so awkward that I fidget for about five seconds in front of whatever fountain/brick wall/lake front/rooftop view I’m standing in front of and then ask, “Did you get it? Is it cute?” 

Like I’m Beyonce or something. IS IT CUTE? Sure. Like my personal paparazzi fan club was just begging to take a candid picture of me. “UGH. DID YOU GET IT? ARE WE DONE HERE?” 

Wearing a leopard print bra to a job interview.

I’m not big on superstition, but I once held a rabbit’s foot in my pocket while I was taking an important exam.

And by “important exam”, I mean a sixth grade science test, and by “rabbit’s foot”, I mean a picture I ripped out of magazine of Justin Timberlake. It was earlier that year when I discovered a “lucky rabbit’s foot” was legitimately supposed to be, like, you know… a rabbit’s.. FOOT… and I was like “What kind of sick person carries around some dead rabbit’s chopped off foot? How does that bring them good luck?” 

It doesn’t. When you think about it, the concept IS a little Jeepers Creepers, ya know? 

But a picture of Justin Timberlake during his Ramen noodle hair and N’sync days? Yes. That will TOTALLY bring you good luck! Probably. If you write the answers on it somewhere in very small print and only look at it occasionally when the teacher isn’t paying attention. Ya know, for luck.

Of course I wasn’t smart enough to do that. Which is probably why I thought I needed a “lucky charm” to get through a sixth grade level science test in the first place. As long as I had a picture of my fake boyfriend “Justin from N’sync” in my back pocket, I was sure to do well. It was magic, and luck, and the Gods and a higher power – and my crazy little eleven year old brain that legit thought some sort of voodoo could make me a really good guesser – all working together.

Ah, to be eleven and weird again. 

I don’t remember how I did on that test. But – to ease your mind – I went on to go to Junior High, and High School, and College, and now I’m a Regional Sales Manager in Chicago, so – however it turned out – I guess not being able to retain information about volcanos and bugs didn’t ruin my life. 

Shopping for spring trends!

So, I went shopping today. And I walked into this little store called The Buckle. Or is it just Buckle? I don’t know – but you know which store I’m talking about, right? It’s supposed to be this very boho-trendy/Coachella fashion/”I paid way too much for this t-shirt” kind of store. (I know, because I’ve paid way too much for a t-shirt here before. )

But I was in the mall, I’d had my Starbucks, and I was feeling pretty good. (Plus I’ve been saying for the last, like, week and a half that “I reaaaaally want some new clothes for summer”. There is no reasonable explanation for this. It’s not like the only thing I have in my closet are clothes made of wool and fur and winter-y things.. But apparently all of the t-shirts and shorts that I have in my closet from last year are, like, sooo 2016.)

I know. I’m the worst. Some people collect dolls, some people eat trash, my addiction is that I buy a lot of clothes. We all have our things.

When you wear the same pair of pants for everything.

You should know something about me: I am a hoarder. (Well, okay, no I’m not. But I collect pants. Not so much in a “collection” sort of way, but more so in a “I can’t get rid of these” sort of way. Because some day I might wear them, even though they’ve been in my closet for two years and I haven’t worn them yet. But, like, the day COULD be coming. Why risk it?)

It’s gotten to the point where I have to squish everything down just to get the dresser drawer closed. I’m like The Little Mermaid with her thing-a-ma-bobs in the cavern. I’ve got skinny jeans, flair jeans, jeans that are too short (even I don’t know why I still have these. Am I waiting for them to come back in style?), jeans that I can only wear with heels (because they’re too long), jeans that I can only wear with boots (because they’re too short), jeans that I can’t button but also can’t get rid of because “I’m going to wear these again!”…and, ugh. Just, ugh.

Hoarders is going to show up on my door step one day, just you wait. “We hear you have a lot of pants,” they’ll say. “We’re here to help.” And I’ll say things like, “No! You can’t get rid of THOSE – I’ll wear them again, I promise! I just need to lose fifteen pounds and start doing squats!” Stay tuned. It’s going to be a great episode.

Boyfriend jeans: NOT your boyfriend’s jeans.

I used to think that if I wore “boyfriend” jeans, people might think that I actually had a boyfriend. Isn’t that why they call them boyfriend jeans? Because maybe your boyfriend left them at your house and – instead of putting on your OWN jeans that morning (you know, the ones designed for your female body type that actually fit) – you were like, “Oh, maybe I’ll just wear my BOYFRIEND jeans”. Because that makes sense. Why wear your own clothes when you can wear your boyfriend’s clothes that were wadded up in a ball on your bedroom floor? At least that was how I’d always imagined it. Like Boyfriend spent the night, and we woke up together and maybe I left the house before he did – you know, for bagels or something – and I just slipped on his jeans because they looked soo comfy. And because I wanted the world to know that I had a boyfriend, and that maybe he was still at my place, and that maybe he wasn’t wearing pants.