Like a lot of privileged people I know, I’ve been able to make sweatpants a new staple in my work wardrobe. My general appearance, whether it be polished or not, has very little to do with my job anymore, save for the occasional shave and haircut for the benefit of my coworkers. My clothes are mostly for comfort. And when I want to dress anything but the most casual, it’s for myself. And that freedom is indescribable.
It’s not the first time I’ve experimented with gender-bending fashion. In college, a friend who spent their free time as a Sister of Perpetual Indulgence, a type of activist who uses drag and religious imagery, went on a shopping trip with me to Marshalls where I bought my first pair of heels—hideous camouflage stilettos with metal studs and rhinestones on the toes. They were excruciating, unwearable, gaudy, and I loved them. I wore them exactly twice, and they spent their life in the back of a closet until I tossed them some years later.
For the longest time, I would admire people like Alok Vaid-Menon, Jacob Tobia, Indya Moore, and Sam Smith with starry-eyed aspiration. I almost felt not cool enough to be nonbinary, that it was a world of freedom and expression and joy that I wasn’t meant to experience. I so desperately wanted that feeling, but couldn’t figure out how to achieve it.
