Your name is Hollister

So, I feel like this post has been half-written before, but, nonetheless, comma, I think that it deserves to be fully addressed (haw haw).

I'm here in the Blaisdell Hall laundry room, doing, other than my Classic Brian, laundry. Laundry in college is one of those big “oh fuck” drawbacks that no one looks forward to, yet everybody has to put up with. I don't know when everybody else does laundry. But I always hit up the L no earlier than midnight on a weeknight. And by always I mean, ya know, the four times I've done it. Any time I am close enough to stretch to a break and not do laundry here for money, I usually go with that. Like, I guess it's part of being a big boy, but not a fun part and I see no way to derive enjoyment from it.

But really, why do we do laundry? Because we don't use clothes to merely cover our junk, as was the original purpose. We do laundry because we love our clothes. One of the more overlooked hobbies that pretty much everyone shares is clothes. I mean, other than skin color, hair and any jarring abnormalities one might have, clothes are the go-to in comprising a first impression.

For example, if you wear backwards hats, athletic shorts, and maybe a cut-off shirt or “ironic” basketball jersey, I can tell you're probably a bro who won't invite me to any of your numerous parties. (The only acceptable excuse for wearing a hat backwards is because Ken Griffey Jr. does it.) If you wear something that makes me laugh, I immediately like you more. If you wear something to look good, well, that's not my kind of fashion.

But it can be, and for all intents and purposes should be, right? If something looks bad, don't wear it. I feel like everyone has that general rule. But people have different criteria for what looks good.

In eighth grade at Myles Peralta's house, Troy Klunick instilled in me that wearing two shirts (an undershirt) was cool and what you should do. So I did. In fact, I'm wearing two shirts right now. Over summer, Sunday Robert convinced me that was a stupid idea and that wearing one shirt was plenty damn enough, given the heat. One at the most.

Also, anybody who gets their clothes through one consistent medium is scoffingly identifiable as nothing more than a label. If all you wear is shit from Urban Outfitters, then you're like, a mainstream hipster. (BOOM!) If you only go to the mall and do the American Eagle-Abercrombie-Hollister-WhateverothergirlystoreIcan'tthinkofrightnow circuit, then you're a prep. And a bitch. If you only shop at Target and Kohl's for clothes. You're kinda poor and shitty. I, for one, make sure to get a little of everything. How tooly of me. Label me a poser. 

But each of us, we like our clothes. It's one of the few things in life we really have a solid amount of control over. I can't imagine what it would be like if you didn't like how you looked in the clothes you owned. I used to actually have this problem when I was young. I think until about third grade my mom just chose my wardrobe for me and did a horrible job because she was raised by Norwegians and didn't get to play enough dress-up as a child. Or something. All I'm saying is she didn't by me a twenty-dollar article of clothing until I was old enough to be called a gaywad. So actually not that long.

I find it interesting, though, as I sit here in the laundry room, watching other people put their identity in a machine to be renewed. Everyone values the shit out of their clothes and it seems like they reflect well on that person. Take everyone at Classic Brian here. Time to start doling out some hate.

Classic's wardrobe is Classic. Lots of thumbs up shirts (shirts that are undeniable cool, but easy). Lots of clothes to look nice in. Lots of clothes that accentuate his skinny body and Cowboy-Bebop ass legs. He has cool trendy indie shoes and may or may not be becoming a hats guy now. If he wears them, that means they're cool.

Robert's wardrobe is odd and inconvenient. The guy owns like, a pair of shorts. He overloads on jeans because he can wear them any time of year (even though he HATES it in the summertime) and has a pair or two of sweet plaids. Or at least he did when I hung out with him, the kid's dynamic so I don't know what's up now. He owns more belts than actual pairs of pants (include shorts in this, I don't know the word for what I want) and matches them with his cool t-shirts, occasional sweater vests, and specially occasional blue and white button-ups. Robert's had the same piece-of-shit pair of shoes since, like, birth, but also got a suave pair of blue low tops and of course, his good luck sandals. I know a lot about these people.

Monday Nick's wardrobe, well I don't know. Shit. Back before he was upgraded, he owned really quiet clothing. Not a lot of graphic stuff, not attention-getting designs or thumbs-up shirts, Just a lot of solid colors, usually to go under a unbuttoned-up shirt and of course. Nick has a few definites. In the used-to category, that beautiful green headband that he got at Relay for Life (STOLEN APHRODITE BEAUTIFUL AND MIGHTY!), and Berkinstocks all the fucking time. Even in winter. Just with thick, hand-made (by his aunt?) socks. He thinks brown belts look stupid. I don't. It's whatever I guess.

Tuesday Mada's wardrobe suits her well. She has proper clothes to impress anyone while simultaneously upholding the notion that she doesn't give a fuck. Oh, look at that cool lion shirt. Boyfriend jeans! Soy Legal shirt. Mada has a few iconic things. Her shoes have to be cool enough. She has a code each article has to pass, and part of that includes being low-budget. But then she liked Abercrombie clothes. So she got a job there to make them cheaper. Basically Mada just uses her clothes as an excuse to be needy. Love her.

Me? Well, to sum it up, I'd say I dip my toes into a lot of genres of clothes so I can pretend to be a certain style in particular for like, three days at a time. I have a few graphic shirts, a few sports shirts, a few university shirts, a few polos, a few artsy shirts, a few Jesus camp shirts, a few of anything I wanna pretend to be for a while basically. I have a pair or two of tight fitting jeans. A pair or two of baggies. A bunch of pairs of in-betweens (or, as some call them, jeans that fit). Got plaid shorts, khaki shorts, athletic shorts. Okay this is getting boring. Acknowledged. Shoes: basketball, casual, running, converse, run-around shoes. A pair of old flippy shit-flops and of course, shower thongs.

Thursday Brendan has dignified clothes. That make him look intelligent. Or a rebel. Whichever he prefers to be on the given night.

Friday Conor likes his shirts loud and attention-getting. And damn right they're hilarious. Remnants of that fourth-grade boy who didn't care about cleanliness show through, but he's added a suave line to his collection so he can seduce the ladies and highlight his new-found level of fitness. Changing! I'm so bored of this.

Point is, clothes define who you are, whether you like that or not. It's embarrassing, for me, how much I hate relinquishing old clothes, even if I don't wear them anymore. I have an attachment, because, I guess, that's what I looked like once. I was the kid wearing that shirt. And now I'll never be that again. My wardrobe, though, will change over time and become adulty. Which'll suck.

So, I mean, here's to clothes. And fuck laundry. Thanks mom.

--Eliot Sill