When I was 25, I went to my first adult New Year’s party. It was one of those expensive events where you pay to drink unlimited champagne and eat oysters from huge tray tables that someone must have sneezed on. I’m sure it was a fun night. In every picture of her, I’m smiling. But the memory that sticks out when I think about the ringing in 2015 is how uncomfortable I felt.
It’s a sad admission, really. The problem wasn’t the company, the place, or the party itself; it was my clothes. I put so much pressure into scoring the perfect evening in the perfect outfit. I wanted so badly to project a fancy party-going new version of myself that I forgot something: dressing up is supposed to be fun. I didn’t have any sparklers or threads, so I put together some pieces I bought on sale. I landed burgundy work pants and a backless black tulle bodysuit that was vaguely shiny. Even writing this is confusing. It wasn’t necessarily a bad outfit, but I wouldn’t have worn it under any other circumstances – especially since the pants didn’t fit.
I spent the night pulling up the weird low-waisted pants and checking to make sure the double-sided tape I used instead of a bra was still there. I ran to the bathroom every 20 minutes to fix myself and reduce the risk of my pants falling down or my breasts sticking out. With each movement I held my breath, convinced that the latter would happen.
I may be a little melodramatic, but I’m not unique in feeling the pressure to look a certain way on New Year’s Eve. The celebration is rooted in superstitions and cultural traditions throughout history, suggesting that getting one thing wrong can ruin your next year. And of course, that includes what you choose to wear.
In an article about rush, Marlen Komar reports that wearing a little sparkle goes back centuries. An early example comes from the 700s, when the Romans wore special amulets representing different themes on New Year’s Day. The report also explains that as parties literally electrified in the 20th century, so did visuals. Wearing something that sparkles was a way to bring the next 365 days on a high and shiny note. Today, the pressure to start the year with the right outfit is increased by social media and fast fashion trends. We have to differentiate and adapt to everyone at the same time.
That brings me to now, just a few days before 2023. The difference is, I won’t be standing in front of my wardrobe, confused by the fabric staring back at me. My often indecent inner monologue can still run into a jumble of questions, like: What are other people wearing? What if I overdress? Are my clothes nice enough? Why doesn’t this dress fit perfectly? Or my favorite: why don’t I like any of my clothes?
But I’ll realize that these questions have less to do with my outfits and more to do with insecurities that an outfit won’t fix (or make worse for that matter). That night, as 2015 settled in New York, I was in the throes of the quarter-century crisis so many people have been through. I was trying to dress up as something I wasn’t and ended up starting the year stuck in last year’s self-doubt.
I’ve since learned that I can pull back from the pressure, as long as I have an honest conversation with myself about why those questions are arising. Is it that I don’t have anything to wear, or I don’t feel comfortable standing out in something meant to attract attention? Headlines like “On New Year’s Eve, we wear glitter,” won’t work for me if I don’t want them. It’s not that I’m more confident in my own style—the raspy voice has definitely lingered with age—it’s that I have less energy for what the silly rules tell me to be. supposed to do. I am more dedicated to doing what I love. Applying this idea to my most clothing panic situations has allowed me to not only feel better, but also to stop shopping for things I ultimately don’t need or like.
Fashion and clothing don’t need to be as complicated as I often make them, but what I wear and how I wear it is the key to everything around me at any given moment, good or bad. So to ring in 2023, I can wear sequins apparently, or I can wear all black. Most importantly, though, I’m going to wear what I like to wear, because as much as I love it, I’ve let the 25-year-old pull off the top, caring more about how she’s perceived than just have a good time
