I think I’ve reached the conclusion that I’m done with maximalism.
As I enter month six of Operation Give All Your Fucking Clothes Away Because You Can’t Even Sleep On Your Bed Anymore, I often find myself studying the mountain of garments that has engulfed my space and thinking, “Damn, girl: Look at all these wear-once-a-year pieces you have. Your broke ass can’t do this no mo’.”
You see, the problem with maximalist dressing—as wonderful of a creative outlet as it may be—is that it’s deceptively limiting when it comes to your actual wardrobe options.
Take this outfit for example, which isn't even close to being the most dramatic one in my possession.
How many times do you think I could wear this before people would become concerned and stage an intervention over my very apparent identity crisis? “Daniela, remember: We’re all here because we love you. This is a safe space. We just want to help you. And to do that, we need to make you understand that you are not the Chiquita Banana lady.” Who wants to deal with that heartbreak? Man, if someone had the AUDACITY to tell me I couldn’t be Chiquita Banana lady, I’d be a damn Chiquita Banana noodle pile of strained hopes and dreams. AND THAT IS GROSS.
I mean, look at this top. It A) Has big ass tropical flowers all over it; B) Is poofy sleeved; C) Is RUFFLE poofy sleeved; D) Is TIERED ruffle poofy sleeved; and E) Is THREE-QUARTER sleeved, which for some reason accentuates what’s already going on even more to me, though I’m not sure why.
This top is like if a Dole pineapple had a baby through Immaculate Conception, and the baby was a loud AF button up. The Messiah embodied through a floral print.
The bottom isn’t the subtlest thing in the world either. I mean, a floor-length pleather maxi skirt? What is this, Little House on the Prairie, which is obviously abundant in references to pleather?
And lucite heels? You know who else wore lucite heels? Liberace. (I mean, maybe. I don't actually know. I am ASSUMING that is not incorrect.)
No no, I think my maximalism has to come to an end for the sake of my checking account. Time to take on that sweet, sweet Steve Jobs mentality: nothing but black turtlenecks. And who knows? Maybe through spiritual osmosis I'll become the next great tech guru. I can already FEEL IT.
* Cries silently to herself * “Omg turtlenecks are itchy and how do computers work?”