I never plan my outfits in advance. Anywhere between one and four hours prior to an engagement of mine you can find me rummaging through my closet with a fresh dusting of mismatched clothes on my floor. This results in a less than predictable morning routine. Although I rarely let myself run late, in the event of a fashion crisis I would allow it. However, the one day a year that I refuse to let indecisiveness get in the way is my birthday. Thus, my outfit will be ideated, picked out, and workshopped far in advance.
I have found that there are generally two types of people; those who love their birthday and those who do not. Although I was once embarrassed to admit it, I am now a proud “I Love My Birthday” person. Let’s just say that I have used the phrase “but, it’s MY birthday” to rationalize something more than once in my life. No, I didn’t grow up fighting for the spotlight against a slew of siblings, or was I deprived of cake all year; I just really like my birthday. It is the one day a year where I call all the shots, a luxury that I don’t often feel I have as an adult. I can make the agenda, set the menu, create the theme, you name it.
Unarguably, the best part of birthdays is the excuse to wear whatever I want no matter how “out there” or bold. These sparkly facades and feathered frocks are just bookmarks in the novel of my evolving fashion sense, but they will always be something to look forward to. If I put as much thought into my outfit every day as I do my birthday, I would never be on time, let alone financially stable. The women’s fashion retailer, Revolve, even has a “Birthday Girl” category featuring endless rows of brightly colored, sequined, and feather-clad dresses one could scroll through for hours.
Let me be clear, planning a birthday outfit is no easy task (especially when you’re thirteen). On the day of, I have friends to awe and crushes to impress; there was no time to worry about my clothes. First, I had to set the scene. There was no way I would be caught dead spending my first day as a teenager in my hometown in Massachusetts, so I convinced my parents to take me to New York City for my 13th birthday. Acting as the funeral to my tween years, I decided an all-black ensemble was the respectable choice. I spent days trying on different outfits, circling pictures in mailed-in catalogues, and begging my mom to take me to the mall. This was hard work! And with a February birthday, I had to overcome the challenge of dressing appropriately for the urban tundra that is New York. Even more importantly, I was now entering teenage territory. The stakes were high.
Alas, I would soon be strutting down Fifth Avenue in a black and grey-hued Abercrombie jacket, black leather pants, accompanying cloche hat and fingerless gloves thinking to myself, “Hell yes. This is thirteen.” I was determined to stay at least five feet away from my parents to convince strangers whom I would never see again that I was an independent city-goer. Standing at four foot eleven at the time, I can imagine my mother’s paranoia trying to keep an eye on her tiny goth.
Fast forward a decade later and not much has changed. I’m taller now and I walk within a standard proximity to my parents, but once a birthday lover, always a birthday lover. I spent my last birthday in a green sequined mini dress and the one before that in a skin-tight, open back number. I yet again fled to New York City for my 18th birthday (some things never change) and I went through great lengths to find my snake print wrap dress for the fête on my 21st. I spend 364 days a year racing against the clock to put together an outfit I deem satisfactory. I’m glad I set aside the time once a year to make my outfit everything I want it to be. I know it’s silly, but I don’t care, it’s MY birthday.
