By now it should be obvious that my signature style is neither a floppy hat nor a robe nor a combination of the two, but a pattern of dependably unreliable highs and lows that decorate my ceaselessly evolving moral outfit. It's exhausting to have to annually, biannually, n-annually reason with myself why I continue to blog about fashion when my interests are elsewhere. I'm always taking breaks from my blog and vacations from real life. I travel manically. I jump into unsustainable relationships because I'm a bored escapist. When the going gets tough, I get going. I revel in the social acceptability of "soul-searching" but am usually first to criticize my fellow millennial narcissist friends for griping over the agony of their privileged self-awareness. I'm a lazy hypocrite, and I'm egotistical for even having the patience to take enough free online personality tests to come to that Jungian conclusion.
I won't offer a defense. I will offer an honest explanation of why I (we) continue to blog and what I (we) get out of this. My condition is not unique, and I don't say that to absolve myself of the lone responsibility to change. I say that to draw attention to the lack of control I and a lot of women my age have given the physics of our conscience's interaction with culture.
A vain career is insured by its value to corporations that commercially thrive on feminine insecurity. And I work as an accomplice to these conglomerates because my survival – daresay conditional excellence- depends on the reliability of such a lucrative Idea’s infrastructure. The more I encourage you to value beauty, the more ideologically founded the beauty industry becomes. And the more money I can potentially make by investing in it. I know better, but I submit regardless. What’s worse is that my submission, though obviously conflicted, is not reluctant. I’m not sure that in fashion blogging I am doing the ‘bare minimum’ to demonstrate my concession to The House. I seem to be giving extra, offering my creative efforts instead of my impersonal and detached labor as a physical employee. But in this context, I can at least superficially play along with the delusion that I am my own boss.
I’m sure some of you are already prepared to undermine my inconvenient proposition with some iteration of postindustrial capitalism's most reasonable self-defense, one that I may aggrandizingly assume I played a role in disseminating: material self-enhancement in the form of makeup and apparel levels out the non-egalitarian playing fields that nature, in its eerily harmonious rhythm between stasis and chaos, guarantees. We don’t all look the same. We’re not all beautiful. Our bodies don’t represent our personalities, only our gene pool.
What I, and what my supporters, fail and have failed to counterpoint is that valuing a beauty standard is not necessary to happiness, that tastes are not indicative of personalities, and that choices are not uniformly representative of our mental process, but instead of our alliances with fluid cultural frequencies and exposure to forces as influential as they are invisible (ergo dangerous, but that’s just my opinion). Our tastes don’t really even belong to us. They belong to the world, and we simply rent them out during our short (and all the while eternal) time on earth.
But in order to feel better about our cooperative roles in such an oppressive system, we re-present the morbid façade to ourselves, more or less hacking the syntax of the process, to protect us from guilt. We talk ourselves out of anxiety because we are infected by an uncanny mutation of Stockholm Syndrome. Somehow, through some series of psychological or sociological impressions, we have learned to romanticize our imprisonment in an effort to tolerate our captor: Materialism.
This blog absolutely cannot be political because it is my job. I profit from this platform. And to assuage my raging cognitive dissonance for choosing to continue bolstering ideology, I offer you the tools to trust that everything you read here is, deliberately or otherwise, corrupt. Know better.
Everything is infinite (pretty sure this isn't actually true),