Graphic Tees

          College activities coordinators are manipulative little bitches. Every morning during my undergraduate career, I would wake up to a poorly arranged and badly written campus announcement email that tried to entice me to come to root beer floats in the quad/walk-a-thon for chinchillas' rights/pre-season kick-off to the countdown to March Madness. These messages hoped to take advantage of my pre-caffeine reasoning skills, thinking I'd sleepily add the event to my Google calendar, or at least half-heartedly scribble a reminder on my shaky hand. Nine times out of ten, I'd drag them straight to my trash folder, considering my Say Yes to the Dress marathon the only thing worthy of my Wednesday night. Unfortunately, the coordinators weren't easily dismissed. Emails would continue to flood my inbox at seventeen minute intervals, paper reminders would pour out of my post office box, and obnoxiously colored posters would hang precariously over stairwells, screaming at me in 64-point Comic Sans. Soon my own mind started working for the dark side, subliminally slipping the event in between my daydreams: "You know what would be better than catching up on all of that sleep you've missed while working on your Senior Seminar? A belly dancing lesson." I'd end up fleeing to my room, blast mind-numbing techno pop, and burn some strong incense, anything to get my brain to stop obsessing. Then, a knock on my door. It's my housemate demanding that I shake off my funk and come to the discussion on possible life on Neptune because they're giving away free tee shirts.
          See? Such a bitch move. These big wigs know that no college kid with a sound mind would pass up a free tee shirt. Not only does it give a broke kid a reason to put off shelling out quarters for laundry for at least one more day (two if you're seeing different people each day and don't get Taco Night all over yourself), it's also proof that you participated. You were a part if something that other people were a part of, you were a member of a community, a part of the scene. It doesn't matter that in three weeks, you'll probably forget who was hypnotized or what big cat is facing endangerment; college students are focused on the moment. They carpe the shit out of that diem. 
          The problem soon becomes sartorial. Your laundry basket is overflowing with Soffee, Hanes, and Alternative Apparel, all of them some sad shade of white, cream, or gray. Outfits that were once only deemed workout appropriate are now A Look. Soon, you're constantly donning a ponytail, eating frozen pizza nightly, and thinking this season's Saturday Night Live is actually funny (sorry, that was rude... frozen pizza is pretty damn delicious). I speak from experience. I had some majorly rough moments, especially in my junior year and the more depressed I became, the more I resorted to the graphic tee. It got so bad that one morning I told my housemate Carrie to ask me if I was still wearing the shirt I slept in to class. 
          Because I was.
          Long story short, I rediscovered not only how to be happy but also my large collection of sundresses. I continued to watch my classmates drift through their days in jersey, advertising the 2009 crab feast where everyone came down with food poisoning. I wonder if they want to wear that, or if it's only out of ease? Does the shirt make them feel good, is it a true representation of who they are stylistically? Do they care, and if not, why? I know it sounds kind of loony, me worrying about people based on their casual wear but clothes are much more than just clothes. You can't participate in most things without being clothed (unless indecent exposure is your jam). Clothing is necessary and if you have to do something, why wouldn't you have a little fun with it? 
          Enough philosophy, back to the shirts. Even though I mostly limited my tee shirt wearing to yoga class, I still managed to come home with four suitcases full of graphic gear. And there they still sit, six months after graduation, folded neatly in my Samsonites. With a possible change in location on my horizon, I decided now is the perfect time to let some of them go the way of the Goodwill. The clotheshorse in me weeps, feeling nostalgia in their fibers but the true fashionista knows when to edit her wardrobe. Here are a few tips I used to scale down my collection:

1.) Only keep what really, really means something to you. 
      For me, this included band tees, concert tees, yoga tanks, shirts I made myself, and anything with really killer artwork. These are the aspects of my life I want people to know about. I can't leave a show without buying a tee shirt, it's a medical condition or something. Usually the design on these are pretty wicked, and they're always good conversation starters: "You were at the Hall & Oates revival tour?? So was I! Let's be best friends!" Yoga's become a major part of my life, and you can't just dump a major part of your life in a roadside bin. Figure out what's important to your life, explains who you are, and keep those tops. Just don't fall into the everything-has-affected-me-in-some-major-way-and-therefor-I-am-keeping-it-all hole. You really don't need that DARE shirt from eleventh grade to remind you not to do drugs.

2.) Only keep what flatters your body.
     Mass-produced tees come in massively misunderstood sizing. Normally, everything is a men's cut, which will look boxy on a petite girl. If this is the case, either pitch it or find a way to make it work for your body. An oversized shirt from that remarkable MOMA show could look awesome with liquid leggings. Pair a baby tee with a maxi skirt at your waist to take it from pre-teen to pretty. If you can't find a way to manipulate it for your form, have no fear. You could always...

3.) DIY, if necessary.
     Some of you might not be able to take the plunge and fully relieve yourself of your tee shirts. I understand, really. However, that doesn't mean that you have to wear them either. Make a blanket, or some pillows, or really hip pulled necklaces. There's a reason Pinterest exists, my dear bucks and does. Type in "tee shirt DIY", break out the scissors, pop in a romantic comedy, and settle in for a most excellent crafternoon.

4.) Reward yourself for your donation.
     Tell yourself that for every ten/twenty/fifty tee shirts you give away, you will reward yourself with one epic new piece for your wardrobe. Just make sure it's not another damn graphic tee.

5.) Know that just having the memories and stories is okay.
     I heard a really great quote the other day about how in today's world that's always plugged into some social network or other, people are more worried about how things look when they should be concerned about how things feel. If and when you go to these events, try and take in all the experience has to offer. Talk to other people there, really listen to the speaker, laugh at the comedian, relish in the fact that you get to be here, in the moment with others. The feeling of community will give you more satisfaction than any shirt ever could.

The Female Body

          I hold true to the idea that one of the main reasons women hate their bodies so much is because we refer to our shapes in such lackluster terminology. Apple, ruler, inverted triangle? I mean, who really wants to be an inverted triangle? Who struts around feeling good about herself, knowing that everyone sees her as an inverted triangle? Answer: no one. That certain term has no love behind it, no appreciation for the warm form in question. The only body conscious vocabulary I've heard extolled in everyday conversation is the ever-coveted hourglass. And this is because women with hourglass shapes are foxy fine. But let's face the facts: every body shape is foxy fine. Seriously. 
          The female body is a wonder, full in peaks and valleys, with plenty of places to rest your hands for a while. In the many conversations I've had with the opposite sex on the topic of which shape looks best on a girl, the answer has almost always been unanimous: they just like girls. Period. All types, all shapes, all sizes. However, the girl does get bonus brownie points if she's confident in her skin, having a devil-may-care-I-do-what-I-want attitude. This girl eats bacon cheeseburgers while wearing leather pants and listening to One Direction on Spotify and not giving a damn who sees it on her Facebook. I'm not saying that being That Girl is easy. It's not. It takes practice in both self-indulgence and self-love. I know it sounds cheesy but really? The foundation for finding That Girl in you is how you treat yourself, how talk about yourself, how you compare yourself to others. 
          I understand the reasoning behind the body shape similes. It's easy to compare how certain areas of your body carry weight to how certain everyday objects look. Rulers are straight up and down. Pears hold most of their deliciousness in the lower part of the fruit. Hourglasses have 36 grains of sand in their upper half, 24 grains falling in the middle section, and 36 grains in the bottom. But why these items? They're so dull, dumpy, and unappealing. They're ordinary, and no woman should ever feel as if she's ordinary. I'm enacting a revolution, a redrafting of the confines in which we categorize the female form. Here are the candidates I'm pulling for:

Old Term: Ruler
Shape: Straight frame, shallow curvature, narrow hips and shoulders, delicate limbs
New Term: Kit Kat Bar
          "Mmm... Break me off a piece of THAT Kit Kat Bar..."

Old Term: Pear
Shape: Curvier lower stomach, hips, and thighs, usually has narrower shoulders and a small chest
New Term: Juicy (because, hello, that's what a pear is)
          "Juicy fruit is just what I was hungry for..."

Old Term: Inverted Triangle
Shape: Wide shoulders, tapering down the body into a straight waist, and narrow hips and thighs
New Term: Sugar Cone
          "I'd like to put some ice cream on top of THAT Sugar Cone..."

Old Term: Hourglass
Shape: Larger busts and shoulders, itty bitty waist, full hips, thighs, and bottom
New Term: Hourglass (this is one instance where the term ain't broke, so I ain't fixin' it)
          "I'd turn that Hourglass over and over and over again..."

Old Term: Busty
Shape: Voluptuous chest, straight lower half
New Term: Twin Pop (because your twins? They're popping.)
          "I'm not splitting that Twin Pop with anyone. She's all mine..."

Old Term: Apple
Shape: Holds weight around the middle torso, and hips and bust are roughly the same measurement
New Term: Rubenesque
          "That girl's a work of art... a Rubenesque masterpiece!"

          Now, I can see how some might find these terms a little offensive (especially with the borderline-pervy-old-man-three-beers-in comments I provided) but do you see what I'm trying to get at here? It's all about semantics. What you call yourself reflects on how you feel about yourself, which in turn reflects how other people see you. If you don't like my terms, choose some of your own! Just make sure they stay positive. The female body has taken a beating in the past few decades, and it's about time to take pride in the shapes we were born to fill. And while I am all about dressing for your shape and your proportions, you also have to dress for how you feel. I've come across a lot of magazines telling me I should be wearing fuller, A-line skirts if I'm concerned with my thighs. However, I've come to terms with the fact that I have a pretty great ass, and great asses look even better in pencil skirts. So, whatever Issue 54. I'm much more of a Joan than a Betty at heart, anyway.

Sweatpants

          In case you are one of the few people I haven't complained to in the past forty-eight hours, you should know that I had all four wisdom teeth removed early Wednesday morning. I spent the week leading up to the surgery incessantly worrying about everything and anything that could go wrong. One moment I'd be scared that the anesthetist would give me too much of the good stuff and knock me out permanently, the next I'd make up this scenario that he wouldn't give me enough, and therefor leaving me the ability to feel every little slice and dice but not the needed muscle function to tell someone about this serious mistake (much like Hayden Christianson in the poorly-received film Awake). Despite my rampant imagination, the operation went as smoothly as original Jif.  I floated home afterwards, high as a kite floating on cotton gauze clouds. Internally, I scolded myself for being so scared, saying, "Silly, Jojo. That wasn't painful at all! And now, you get to eat all of the rainbow sherbet!"
          Getting to eat all of the technicolor desserts comes with a cost, more commonly known as hating your own existence.  That excruciating pain people had warned me about came on immediately after I pulled the packings from my mouth. It was as if my entire face exploded within the confines of my skin. My cheeks resembled those of the blob fish, and I somehow had acquired Kanye West's lips. I was convinced for the longest time that I had no tongue, that the surgeon decided my life would be somehow better without it. I was crying, snotty, inconsolable. In short, I was exactly what I imagined I would be like post-op. Luckily, I have the best mom in the entire world. She eased my worried heart, made me delicious, mushy squash, broke up my medication into applesauce when I couldn't open my mouth wide enough to swallow it, and helped me into the comfiest clothing any bed rest patient could desire.
          For the first few days, I was pleased as punch with my sweatpants-graphic tee-grandpa sweater uniform. It was effortless and easy, fairly warm, and transitioned well into functioning as pajamas whenever my vicodin decided to knock me out. This morning however, something felt different. As I slipped on a pair of pink cropped sweatpants and a college sweatshirt, a shudder went through my bones. I sat down in the same chair I had been sitting in for the past two days, hot tea in hand... and I felt gross. I reasoned that this is what moss must feel like: stagnant, forgotten, and laying in filth. The arsenal of fashion magazines I had stockpiled next to me wasn't helping. Here I was, ice packs strapped to both sides of my face, thermal blanket on high, numerous pill bottles within shaky hand's reach, looking at picture after picture of poised perfection. Women were glowing with flawless complexions, wearing size zero designer gowns, casually posed at a cocktail party as if this was the kind of thing they did in these kinds of outfits all of the time (which was probably true).  I was beginning to feel extremely worthless until I took notice of their teeth, or rather the fact that they still had all of them.  They hadn't just gone through the pain, confusion, and shock that I had endured. The biggest pain these ladies felt  probably came from their Spanx or stilettos.  It was at this moment that I decided sweatpants had a greater purpose than I had recently thought. Sweatpants were made for all of those going through hardship and strife, the bodies and hearts experiencing some type of turmoil.
          It sounds a little melodramatic, I know, but let's look at the basic function of sweatpants. Sweatpants were originally created for the athlete. They're made out of a heavy jersey material and have simple construction, normally incorporating a drawstring and elastic banding. An athlete wears sweatpants to protect his or her muscles. Before practice, sweatpants perform the way a sleeping bag does for a body with hypothermia: it contains the legs and slowly warms the muscles, preparing them for the coming physical activity. After practice, sweatpants are worn to keep the muscles warm, allowing them to slowly relax down to resting temperature, similar to a cool down stretch. Some readers may be unable to connect sports to turmoil but let me try and illustrate it for you: you're covered in sweat, your heart is pounding, your lungs are gasping for a few restful breaths, your thighs/arms/abs/ass feel like they are on fire, and as you glance at your watch, you realize you still have forty-four minutes left in your workout. See the tortures now?
          Another scenario where sweatpants get a fashion pass is if you've experienced a recent breakup. They say the best way to get over someone is to keep busy: go out for drinks with your friends, get a new haircut, join a club, visit loved ones, do some yoga, etc. etc. Having been through a few pretty rough breakups, I've found the best way to get over someone is in a pair of sweatpants, drinking pink lemonade vodka straight from the bottle, watching Serendipity over and over and over again, and passing out in the shower. Okay, maybe this isn't the best way to get over someone but it is the best way to forget about... well, everything for a bit. In this instance, sweatpants aren't preparing the body for work but are providing a pillow for the broken spirit, and bonus! The drawstring can be adjusted to every cupcake consumed, constantly assuring you that, no, you don't look fat. In fact, you've never looked better, sunshine. 
          A lot of people assume I have some sort of vendetta against sweatpants. I rarely wear them, even when I am sick, sticking to loose skirts or oversized sweaters and leggings instead. This is an unfounded assumption, as can be seen in my argument for sweatpants above. The people I do have beef with are those who abuse the poor jersey leg wear, the ones who choose jogging gear over any other piece of clothing. If you've ever stepped onto a college campus, you know the perpetrators I'm talking about. Those girls who wear neon green, cropped sweatpants with a sassy saying splayed across the butt, a matching velour track jacket, and Uggs. Always Uggs. The male offenders are almost as bad, wearing their sweatpants low-slung, some worn-out sports tee on top, and either flip-flops or moccasins. And it's not as if they wear this type of ensemble once. Once I'd be able to allow, twice even, if it was finals week. But no, these people wear these get-ups all the freaking time. I don't know if they understand the fundamental rule of dress: wearing oversized clothes doesn't make you look skinny; it makes you look sloppy. Being a recent college graduate myself, I understand that it's an incredibly stressful four years and some days comfort outweighs the need to be chic. For those days, there are tons of alternative things to wear. Yoga pants are one of God's many gifts to women. They're hecka stretchy, enduring any strange late-night-studying-in-the-library-lounge pose you could force them into. Also, they conform to your shape, showing the world you haven't lost your feminine curves without being nearly as constricting as jeggings. For your upper half, french terry is a beautiful alternative. It's lighter than normal sweatsuit material, and lays flatter on the body much like a tee shirt. Plus, many retail stores have been producing super hip, printed pullovers made with french terry. Tres chic, non? And for the Black Card Members out there, the option of cashmere is always available. I mean, if it was between a PINK sweatshirt or a J. Crew cashmere sweater, we all no there would be no competition. Although most are machine washable, when you are considering slipping into some sweats, always handle your decision with the utmost care.  

Tights

          There is an incredibly popular, albeit incredibly overused saying that bluntly proclaims karma's a bitch. Now, being the girl that I am who tries to see the best in everything and everyone, I think this is a little harsh. To be perfectly honest, you probably deserved that ketchup on your designer slacks/seventh consecutive parking ticket/infected pedicure because you were a bitch in the first place. In my opinion, I like to think of karma as a wise friend, someone who is not afraid to point out when you're wrong, to show you a world view you might not have been able to see through your prejudiced-colored glasses. 
          You see, this weird thing happens all the time between me and karma. Sometimes, I'll speak without thinking, judging something before really experiencing and appreciating it. Let's use handmade ukuleles as an example. I'll be in a conversation with an unsuspecting fan of these teeny guitars, and all of a sudden lash out irrationally and say, "Good God! I hate handmade ukuleles! I hate their size, I hate that tinny sound they make, I hate that they remind me of Hawaii, I hate the hipster kids who play them like a poor man's Zooey Deschanel. I hate everything about handmade ukuleles." This is where karma gets me good. Karma lets me go on hating handmade ukuleles for a little bit longer, normally between four to six months. Then, without warning or explanation, BAM. I become obsessed with them. I can't get enough handmade ukuleles. I listen to Iz on repeat day in and day out. I buy a miniature case for my own instrument so I can tote it around with me everywhere like a small dog. While my new obsession might be a bit... well, obsessive in the beginning, I will be proven once again that unfounded criticisms are no fun, or to borrow the words of another popular saying, "don't knock it until you've tried it."
          Karma knows no limits. Music, people, flavors of cream cheese, and (obviously) fashion. This is how I came to love tights. If you know me now, you'd think I was born with a pair of tights on. My legs are patterned, colored, or caught in a fishnet on a regular basis (and by regular basis I mean 6.5 days out of the week). I have approximately three pairs of jeans and seventeen pairs of tights. In the winter, one might assume I'd throw on some sweats and call it a day. False: I layer four pairs of tights and make that day my bitch. Surprisingly, this is not how it always was with my wardrobe. 
          When I was a very little lady, my mom would go all out on the outfits I wore to Sunday school. I called them my dancing-one-dresses and pretty-girl-shoes, for both the way that they made me feel and how the dresses blossomed out when I spun around in the sanctuary's lobby. Unfortunately, the ensemble a pretty girl wears (especially one prone to spontaneous dancing) is not made for the rambunctious activity of Sunday school, which is pretty much religious recess. There's running, jumping, duck-duck-goosing, cross-legged story time, ten second clean up, and a lot of that spinning until you wanted to puke that was previously mentioned. A little angel needed protection against any situation that may deem her unladylike and crude. A little angel needed tights.
          My six-year-old self begged to differ. I would do anything possible to get out of wearing an entire rainbow of Little L'eggs. Cry, lie that they didn't fit my chubby thighs, purposefully cause runs with a Lisa Frank pencil, soak them in a flammable liquid and cackle over the nylon/Lycra blend blaze (okay, I didn't really do that last one but would have had I the common household chemicals in the proper proportions). Tights may serve a purpose, and can even turn a tot into a trendsetter but let's be real: they're tight and itchy. On paper, they prove to be a woman's worst nightmare, and the nightmares children experience can echo into adulthood. Luckily, I said those beautiful three words early on in my youth: I hate tights. 
          I've been a changed woman ever since. I think tights are the leg wear to end all other leg wear. They can take a summer dress and make it acceptable for colder weather. They use the large expanse of skin on your legs to the fullest advantage. Recently, hand-painted tights have made a big splash on the scene, taking the patterned version to one of artistic talent. They are able to start conversations, having people asking where you bought them or how adventurous and fun they are, how only a fashion maven could pull them off successfully (which you are, and you do). Colored tights add that pop to an otherwise neutral outfit. A little black dress goes from classic to contemporary when you pair it with a neon purple or on-trend emerald nylon. Fishnets have been synonymous with foxy and fierce ever since they tangled around women's thighs in the late 1960s. One advertisement during that time claimed fishnets gave leg "more leg." My personal favorite type of leg wear is the thigh high. Held up by the slightly taboo but super sexy garter belt, thigh highs are the poster children for decadence. Every time I wear a pair, I feel incredibly powerful. While some assume that the modern use of thigh highs and garters is contained to the bedroom, I like to think of it as my own secret to share: I could show them off, or I could keep them to myself; the choice is entirely in my own hands.  Tights and nylons aren't just for the super femmes, either. Sometimes, I'll pair mine with my knee-high lace up boots, transforming cute or couture into kick-ass.  Tights can also give you that extra-coverage you need if the dress you bought for weekend clubbing is just a bit short for weekday club-sandwiches (I'm looking at you, Forever XXI). However, if you just can't wrap your mind around the idea of wrapping your legs in hosiery, do what the rationing fashion rebels did in the 1940s: draw a seam down the back of your calves with waterproof eyeliner. Legs for days, without the L'eggs.