What I Wore Out: Week of May 6

An outfit diary.

Earlier this month, I took an afternoon off and went to the park to finish My Year On Earth With Mr. Hell. Like a lot of people, I devoured the book, which was published in 2020 and recounts in thrilling detail author Young Kim’s ten-month affair with ‘70s punk rock hottie Richard Hell. (Apparently, without his approval; he called it “revenge porn.”) In addition to giving us steamy play-by-plays of her erotic encounters, Kim also spends a significant amount of time describing what she and Mr. Hell are wearing. Let’s call it outfit porn.

“I decided I probably think about clothes the way Richard thinks about sex,” she writes. In other words, the act of getting dressed gives her incredible pleasure, and she would never deny herself that indulgence. It’s part of her identity and how she expresses herself. She knows she’s good at it, and that is her power.

I was so inspired by the project that I decided to start keeping an outfit diary of sorts myself. Listen: I’m no Young Kim—not even close. My entries are not nearly as juicy nor as self-assured, and my style is not nearly as advanced. I’m also not going to tell you the details of my sex life. (You’re not paying enough for that.) I just like the idea of talking about outfits in the context of real life and not relying on shitty mirror selfies to show you what they look like.

Here’s my first attempt. If you like it, maybe I’ll write another when I have a particularly eventful week. Or maybe it’s boring! Idk I enjoyed working on it.

MONDAY, MAY 6: Met press preview

It’s 9:00 AM on the first Monday in May, and I need to be uptown at the Metropolitan Museum of Art by 9:30 AM for the press preview of the new Costume Institute show. I’m still in my pajamas, so I’m already late.  

Normally, I like to dress according to the exhibit’s theme, but I don’t really know how to do that this year. Florals? Too boring. Vintage? Too easy. 

The weather is gloomy, so I plan my entire outfit around the khaki-colored Prada raincoat I purchased at the brand’s sample sale the day prior. Extra-long and tent-like with cinched sleeves that you’re meant to roll up for a poofy effect, it’s the kind of coat that’s the main event, which is good because I don’t have time to think about what to wear underneath it. “You will get so many compliments,” said a woman with a sigh at the sale. (She bought it full-price when it hit stores in Spring 2019, which was Raf’s first season with the brand. The silhouette is very much him—it reminds me of his Dior skirts.) This is also good because everyone I’ve ever wanted a compliment from will be at the Met. 

I throw on my uniform — black Uniqlo suit pants, a black Agnes B snap cardigan, plus Sophie Buhai silver ball earrings, which I think look like snaps — and run out the door, clutching my coat as the Prada models did on the runway. Almost instantly, I trip on the hem and nearly fall to my death down the stairs. 

Somehow, I arrive at the Met by 10 AM. I’ve missed the remarks, which is fine. In the elevator, I run into a friend who seems stressed. He’s dressed in a full Thom Browne skirt suit but says he didn’t have enough time to shave or put on makeup, so he’s wearing an N95 to cover his face. I tell him he looks great.

When we get to the American Wing, it’s a sea of trench coats. I find Avery, who is wearing a fantastic vintage gray linen Marimekko one. She tells me she convinced her mom to do a closet swap with her friends just so she could snag it from one of them. Smart. We laugh about how apparently unoriginal we are but I personally think our coats are the best. 

After seeing the exhibit, I have some time to kill before a work lunch at the Odeon, so I walk through Central Park over to the West Side. On my feet, I’m wearing the Row’s leather ‘Fara’ combat boots, which I wanted so badly I paid the company Sourcewhere to track them down for me after years of coming up empty-handed on resale sites. YEARS. Being the Row, they start to bother me after walking for just a few minutes, but I have no regrets. They’ve got the perfect pointy-toe shape.

As I exit the park, I look around and think, God, this place is so beautiful, I should come here more often. Then I overhear a man speaking loudly on the phone, presumably with his doctor. “Yeah, no, it’s definitely *not* my balls,” he shouts. 

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