Softbodied

This is a fragment I wrote in February 2022. I held it back because I was too hard on myself. I like it now, so away it goes.

Two years into the pandemic and I feel like a soft-shelled creature, creeping the ocean bottom wondering if it’s safe to rise from the depths yet. A goblin shark. An octopus cruising for whelks. The only proofs I have that time is passing are filled notebooks and a government notice warning my identification is nearly expired.

All the clothes I see for sale are smocked and rumpled. Clothes sewn to contain your sighs and the endless bowls of Lucky Charms you eat for dinner. If you slop milk on them, don’t worry: the fleece is absorbent. These are clothes to watch Bridgerton in while you cry over the Duke of Hasting’s impeccably toned ass.

Whenever fashion shifts the culture is signalling its restlessness. There’s no romance left after 700+ days trapped in your hamster house. The promise of Hot Vaxxed Summer was hollow after all. It’s time to find a new way to wrap and embody our desires.

I know the rumpled smocks are intended for an algorithmically-tuned version of me: a tastefully pierced woman, fluent in but skeptical of self-help tropes, adept at ritual skincare. You buy one meditation cushion and the market nails you down, force-feeding you ads for maxi dresses and kimono-styled bathrobes for months.

Window shopping for clothes in 2022 is looking dead-eyed at a future that doesn’t want you.