It was 6: 30 a.m. on a Tuesday morning when I found myself having a crisis in front of my closet. Nothing unusual there. I’ve probably had too many clothing-related meltdowns in front of my closet to count.
This particular meltdown, however, was sparked by the knowledge that I was already running late for work when I should have been choosing an outfit hours ago. Every stupid detail of my morning rushed through my mind as I threw on whatever I could grab that vaguely matched in those few spare minutes before I left for the office. You know the panic: where everything in your closet suddenly looks terrible and you realize your coworkers probably think you wear the same five blazers to rotation because hello, isn’t that basically true?
Anyway, I’d been writing about the return of Y2K fashion for months at that point. Covering Gen-Z leading the comeback of all my teen-wasted fashion sins had finally kicked back at me.
My reaction: full-on why-bother eating scrambled eggs on Tuesday morning?
I waved my hands in the air at my closet like I was Gloria from Uncle Sam and replied out loud, “EFF IT!” and started digging through my back corner where I keep my go-to “vintage” clothes that I too emotionally mature to get rid of but am too embarrassed to wear out in public. Basically, my college dumpster of a wardrobe that, miraculously, has lived through eight previous address changes. Let’s just say it’s a treasure trove.
First, I grabbed a pair of laughably low-rise jeans I’ve been clinging to since my vertical energy decreased. They’re “True Religion” if we’re getting specific. In my dire attempt to live my best life in high school, I spent something obscene like $180 on them in 2004.
Back when that was literally several months’ pay at my crappy mall-day-job and my knowledge of designer jeans stopped at Seven for All Mankind. They still fit, albeit after much gasping for breath and strategic squatting. Let me just say, threading those bad boys through that button was like an Olympic sport.
Especially when the said button sailed across my room and nearly decapitated my cat, Rufus. Who, after glaring at me with utmost judgment, strutted away as if he weren’t the one living with a human who just wore her pants below her belly button. All jokes aside, Rufus is not a fan of my “fashion experiments.” He sleeps on my bodice dresses and sheds all over my crop tops to spite me (or so I tell myself).
I also pulled out a baby-blue cropped sweater that sat RIGHT AT MY BELLY BUTTON, a tiny baby striped tee underneath (thanks, random tech company swag packet you got from who-knows-where), and, because I was clearly in the midst of some psychotic break, threw on butterfly clips to section off the front parts of my hair. Jesus Christ. As my grand finale, I unearthed an old baguette-style shoulder bag I’d purchased for literal pennies on Craigslist.
It had zipped shut at some point in the past decade because, quite frankly, it’s too small to fit anything besides my pride. My iPhone barely fit along with my keys and emergency lipstick, which was ironic? For the Y2K aesthetic?
Regardless, I looked at myself in the mirror and almost didn’t recognize the weird time-period tumbleweed staring back at me. College Harper would have killed to see me now. Pre-knee injuries, pre-good-savings-account-account Harper wearing Uggs with mini skirts.
Obviously, this wasn’t my full, authentic revival—I had matured into myself enough to know not to rock the Ugg Boots. But adding thehighlightswithinmyeyelids probablysealeditfortheroleofdead-harper-raising-harper-from-hergrave. Ok, so, fair warning.
Despite Style Compass USA being a fashion publication, we’re not exactly GAPBYU. We have an office standard. Our managing and Executive- In-Creative (EIC) director, Katherine, regularly sports Prada to our weekly meetings, OKAY?
I wasn’t expecting a standing ovation walking into work that day, but for some reason, something about seeing my tragic-attempt-at-a-backwards-wrap peaked Collar Fe achieved gave me a sudden burst of empowerment. And oxygen. I strutted into work that morning like I was conducting a social experiment no one asked to be a part of.
I may or may not have also done a little hip sway as I passed security to work, but who’s counting? I could see the security guard at the front desk eyes bulging out of his head as I passed him—I legitimately think he pulled a shoulder muscle from how he stared at my thighs. Everyone in the elevator avoided eye contact as I rose past floor after floor of unsuspecting consultants from the private bank in our office building.
By the time I stepped onto our floor, however, I was feeling it. It was game time. “Emmmmmmmaaaarrrggghhh,” Emma, one of our digital team members cried when she saw me dart into our kitchenette. She clutched her iced coffee so tightly, her knuckles turned white. “Harper.
What. Are. You.
WEARING?” She half shrieked, half giggled before ushering me into the nearest alcove like we were about to sell each other illicit clothing items. “Wait, are those…THATISRELIGION?? Did you steal that from the MET MUSEUM? Or worse…YOUR OWN UNDERBED MAKEhift drawer you hid as a teen?” “It’s for research.” See?
Confidence. “Research on how to embody the full Y2K experience,” I added for clarification. Even though this wasn’t true. The story had already been published.
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I was having a Tuesday. Emma stared at me, eyes wide with horror and excitement. “Oh my god KATHERINE is going to CUTE BRAIN HALLOWEEE when she sees this.” I hadn’t even thought to consider what my boss would say when I got to work that morning. It goes to show how deep I’d slipped down the rabbit hole of refusing to wear pants that actually covered my ass.
Katherine Wang is, of course, the queen of picking my next career steps and overall enforcing that horrible feeling you get in your stomach when you think you didn’t meet someone’s standard. She’s been my mentor since I started at Style Compass almost two years ago and I’m still continuously impressed with how much she teaches me about this industry. She’s also an honest human being with Opinions about what is and isn’t acceptable “office attire.” My personal style isn’t exactly up her alley, but something about picturing her face when she saw my atrocious state made me love the thought.
I’ve reached an age where I occasionally want to burn my whole life down and watch just to feel something. That or I really should up my therapy sessions. By 10 a.m., I had received 17 Slack messages ranging anywhere from “Omg girl, YASSSS” to “are you ok?!? !” and “does Katherine need to talk to you about HR standards?” My features assistant even asked if she could take a photo of me “for office records.” News flash, Michael, we all know that “office records” means the Slack channel I’m obviously not invited to.
Team Fashion Closet (aka our lovely style trend watchers) applauded as I breezed by them to grab a sample return. When our morning editorial meeting started, however, was when things really took off. I slid into my desk chair (uproariously, might I add.
There is no graceful way to sit in low-rise jeans). It’s not a great look to sit down when you’re rocking jeans that barely stay up, let me tell you that now. Imagine trying to watch a scary movie and the whole time you’re thinking about how your anus is almost literally hanging out for everyone to see.
Not sexy. The meeting had already started when Katherine waltzed in, freshly three minutes late and mid-sentence about options for our June cover story when she locked eyes on me. She paused, her coffee mug suspended halfway to her lips, and looked at me.
All twenty-two of us fashion worshipping hipsters at Style Compass stopped what we were doing and stared forward. You could’ve heard polyester brushed against denim from our office to the F/C floor. Harper,” she began, keeping her voice at a noncommittal level that could either lead to her promoting me or firing me on the spot. “This is definitely a unique outfit choice for a Tuesday.” “This is for an immersive journalistic research project on Y2K fashion,” I said, channeling my inner Ivy Winston. “One must EXPERIENCE Y2K to trulywriteaboutY2K,” I finished, accidentally eye-rolling at my own hot take.
Katherine set her coffee mug down on her desk, staring down at my butterfly clips like she was trying to solve the world’s greatest mystery. Then, much to everyone’s shock (mine especially), she smiled. Not her practiced, stand-at-head-of-the-team smile that didn’t reach her eyes because she’s literally Katherine freaking Wang.
We’re talking grin-from-ear-to-ear, suck it up kinda smile. “I used to wear a denim mini skirt with a popcorn shirt and THOSE SAMDAS from Steve Madden…” Katherine trailed off, gesturing vaguely at my existence. “You know, the ones with the spandex sides? To my very first magazine interview.” Every single person in that conference room nearly dropped their jaw. Katherine wearing anything other than Stella McCartney suit-style clothing was unheard of. “And I thought I looked fabulous.” She continued, laughing now as she reminisced on her story. “Let’s just say that wasn’t the response I got from her.” Katherine paused for a second, staring off into thoughtland. “But she hired me.
Said anyone who had the gall to show up in that get-up obviously had the spunk to just pick up the phone and call celebs for comments.” She smirked. “She was right.” Oh.my.god…I was not expecting this from Katherine. I was not expecting story time, nor a story that made Katherine so human, I wanted to cry…yet celebrate? “I’m not saying I think this particular ensemble isStanfordBusinessReview appropriate,” She waved her hand vaguely in my direction again. “But you’ve got to remember where we came from. Trends happen.
One day we hate everything you’re wearing RIGHT NOW, the next day it’s back in style.” She chuckled. “And then it’ll get boring and overdone and we’ll hate it again. Like clockwork.” And just like that, she turned back to her team, pointing at the June lineup on the wall as if she’d never spilled her twenty-year-old debut work outfit story to a room of juniors and assistants who would tell their future children about what happened that day. At lunch that day, I was bombarded with every employee wanting to SHARE THEIR STORY of how they, too, still owned that one overwhelming yellow Polo shirt their dad bought them in 2002 or mom “gifted” them for their bat mitzvah.
Two other team members sheepishly admitted to owning bags of Polo shirts they refused to let go of (Hi Mom?!?). We made friendly bets to “Y2K it up” for Fridays from there on out. NEWS FLASH: it didn’t happen, but boy did we feel fancy pretending we were gonna.
What I was not expecting, however, was when our social media manager literally blocked me in my desk path around 3 that afternoon. “Do not move,” SheHisShe commanded, already positioning her iPhone on filming mode. “THIS. Is trending material. We are doing a whole SERIES on our social teams diving into trends we covered when they were popular.
Katherine already approved.” And that, friends, is how I became Part 1 of a six-photo series on Instagram that got more views than our entire team’s coverage of the Met Gala. Complete with hateful comments from millennials about how “we’ve learned and grown from these HORRIBLE trends” and praises from teenagers who weren’t even alive when Y2K was a “thing” singing me praises on “bringing REAL Y2K back.” I survived a grand total of 9.5 hours in those jeans.
Too-long-to-be-productive-at-work squishing of my organs finally got to me and I was cheap enough not to have jimmy-allowed-approved jeans in my desk drawer.
BUT! For that moment in time when I was sporting that much denim, I felt free. Free to be confident in my knowledge that yes, I did just basically wear my pants below my butt for eight hours and no one fired me.
Free to remember that clothing can be fun, weird, and outrageous and nobody cares…until they do? ! Will I be rocking my old Y2K favorites to work anymore? Heck no.
My bladder will never forgive me. But I’ll always remember that day as a fun reminder that fashion is cyclical, and sometimes we all need to take a step back and laugh at ourselves. Don’t be afraid to remember where you started.
Your old jeans will always love you. …and please…next time I won’t wear the butterfly clips. No matter how nostalgic you’re feeling.
