Recently, we spoke about the difficulty of emotionally connecting with summer and the revelation that—oh, surprise—the warmer seasons aren’t always the most stylish. The truth is, I hate dressing in summer. I can’t wrap myself in layers and layers of random fabric or bundle up in the beautifully worn cashmere sweater someone gave me one day when I was shivering in the cold. Many of my clothes are inherited from other people or other stages of my life, and summer robs me of that pleasure. Suddenly, June through August is tank top and T-shirt season.
Unfortunately, I’m not committed enough to wearing black to slip into Rick Owens in 95-degree heat, and therefore my everyday options become painfully limited: a cycle of uninspiring basics when it’s simply too hot to wear anything remotely interesting. I feel like my personality suffers. Honestly, I feel lost without my signature long coat and cozy overlays. On the other hand, summer is a nightmare for body dysmorphia, and I’d love to hide behind long sleeves until the first signs of September.