by Grace Helbig
You’re an avid Pinterester and you can’t resist a good brunch or over-adjective’d Starbucks order. You care about issues and charities but it’s really hard to balance getting involved when Zara is having its end-of-season sale. (Let the record state, I wear these jeans all the time, and yes, I am very full of guacamole.)
Bootcut Jeans are like the Southwest egg rolls to your mozzarella sticks: they’re slightly more exotic but still a safe choice. If you opt for bootcut jeans, I assume you’re a new mom in your midthirties from Maryland out on the town for the first Friday night since your chest domes ceased lactating. That or you’re a lady who works on a farm and actually needs the slightly wider cuff to accommodate the boots you wear strictly for work and not fashion purposes. Either way, you spend most of your day tossing a bunch of slop into the mouths of some underdeveloped animals.
Flared Jeans mean . . . well, I don’t know that anyone who wears flared jeans would actually buy this book. There are a lot of wind chimes and crystals to be bought first. And don’t think I’m being mean. I went to Sedona once and left with $100 worth of amethyst crystals because a lady told me they “could” calm anxiety. That said, here’s a business proposition for anyone interested: Amethyst-Crystal-Crotch-Lined Lady JNCOs. THInK aBOuT IT!
Straight Jeans mean you’re gay. That or you’re very good at the intellectual career you’ve chosen for yourself and devote more time to that endeavor than attempting to understand or experiment with fashion. Good for you.
Boyfriend Jeans mean you either just broke up with your boyfriend, you’re bloated, you paint houses for a living, you’re a toddler, or you recently lost a lot of weight and now your old skinny jeans look like boyfriend jeans.
Jorts (aka jean shorts) mean your ankles got hot and why would you go shopping when you have scissors? Besides, you’re too busy listening to Limp Bizkit and trying to find your moccasins to go buy “real” shorts. And the rest of your day is full of Xbox, Xtube, getting high, and Miller High Life. You were a philosophy major for a second, and now you’re a student of life. When people question you about your lifestyle, you point to your “think outside the bun” tramp stamp and shrug your shoulders. You’re a sloppy, floppy paradox.
“Fashion is not necessarily about labels. It’s not about brands. It’s about something else that comes from within you.”
—RALPH LAUREN
“Fashion is not necessarily about labels. It’s not about brands. It’s about that hungover depression that comes from within you that motivates you to spend $300 on gap.com.”
—GRACE HELBIG
street style
GPS: GRACE PRETENDS STREETS (ARE REAL PEOPLE)
I’m sure you’ve heard of the term “street style” before.
A lot of designers take inspiration from the streets because . . .well, they’re the birthplace of trends and the breeding ground of fashion. If you’re unfamiliar, fear not, I’ve been on many different streets over the years, so allow me to break it down for you.
Avenues are very chic. They have a classic elegance and usually lead to something luxurious. They’re dramatic and can take up a lot of space with their grandiose presence. They’re timeless, beautiful, and attract a lot of old people. They’re very Barneys meets Saks. And they hang with Bloomingdale’s but they talk about her behind her back.
Highways are all business. They’re smooth, sleek, industrial, and very monochromatic. They prefer to blend in. They’re practical and predictable and can be just plain boring. It’s really hard to party with a highway. They’re very Ann Taylor meets RadioShack.
“Design is a constant challenge to balance comfort with luxe, the practical with the desirable.”
—DONNA KARAN
“Design is a constant challenge to balance comfort with giving a f*ck.”
—GRACE HELBIG
Dirt Roads are free spirits. They’re wild, unkempt, and usually have a lot of holes. They attract a wide variety of people, from young tripping college types to old hairless hillbillies. You never know what you’re gonna get with a dirt road. They might lead you to the greatest party; they might lead you to the most terrifying murder cabin. It’s always a gamble with them, but a memorable one. Because no matter what they show you, you usually wake up with a sore butt the next day. They’re Wet Seal meets REI meets Boot Barn.
Cul-de-sacs and Courts scream suburban sophisticated. They play it safe with their style; they keep everything tucked in. They’re family-friendly, relatively uniform, and tend to have an underlying superiority complex. They don’t consider themselves Ross Dress for Less, they’re Marshalls. They’re not Payless Shoe Source, they’re DSW. They’re not JCPenney’s, they’re Macy’s.
Alleys are edgy. They’re darker and less obvious. They’re stereotypically associated with drug deals and wizards. They usually have an air of “city cool” mixed with a gritty artistic aesthetic. They’re rough around the edges in a culturally stylish way. They’re Urban Outfitters meets Rag & Bone meets a cigar shop.
THE SWEATPANTS DIARIES #2
Saturday, Sept. 26, 2015
Dear Diary,
I don’t even know where to begin. So much has happened. I’ve officially been at the MOA for one whole day and it’s been straight-up bonkers. It’s taking a lot more getting used to than I thought it would. And trust me, I’ve been bursting at the seams to tell you all about it, but I’ve just been too tied up. Sorry, Diary, I’m reusing puns already, I’M ALL OVER THE PLACE.
So, my big day had come: I was about to head to the MOA. I sat in the kitchen next to the window with my duffel bags packed, checking through the curtains every three seconds thinking I heard my ride. My SweatMom and SweatDad shuffled over to say good-bye. They began to get a little choked up, but then a new episode of Judge Judy started playing on the TV, so they quickly said their sloppy good-byes and sank back into their beanbag chairs. Suddenly I heard a horn from outside and the knots in my stomach jumped. I looked out the window and saw a shiny white truck with the word “FedEx” beautifully written on the sides. It was just like the commercial.
Just then my G-Wind wandered out from the back room holding a shoe box. She handed it to me, and when I asked her what was inside, she said, “I can’t tell you just yet. But you’ll know the right time to open it.” I looked at her confused and she said, “Okay, yes, I got stoned and watched a lot of Harry Potter last night. Regardless, this box is very special to me, so take good care of it. Try not to open it until you get there.”
I shoved the box as carefully as possible into one of my bags and headed for the truck.
A man lifted open the back door and in front of me was an amazing, tarnished, silver-lined interior with beautifully shabby shelves and scraps of aged, stained cardboard strewn around. It was magical. There were already a bunch of other clothes on the shelves talking and laughing and throwing old mailing labels at each other. I hopped in and tried to sit in an open seat next to a pair of Nike running shoes, but she looked me up and down and told me the seat was saved for yoga pants. So instead, I found a spot next to a pair of Birkenstocks. “Ugh, don’t even waste your time with the athletic wear,” Birkenstock said. “But I’m athletic wear, too, I just thought—” Before I could finish the sentence, Nike running shoes cut me off and said “Correction, you’re pathetic wear.” All the other clothes started laughing until Birkenstock chimed in and said, “No, what’s actually pathetic is how cheap it is to make you and how expensive your price point is.” A bunch of “ooohs” swept the shelves and the Nike tightened her laces and turned around to continue talking to neon-pink Lululemon yoga pants.
I couldn’t believe Birkenstock stood up for me like that. She didn’t even know me. I thanked her and she told me to call her “Birk.” I told her she could call me “Sweat” because I panicked and couldn’t think of any other nickname. We ended up talking the rest of the way there. She’s a sophomore, so she already survived the freshman grind. She told me a bunch of her horror stories. Like how all the upper
-class Jimmy Choos haze the incoming shoe freshmen by dousing them with Odor-Eaters while the Vans sneakers draw all over them with permanent marker. And getting permanent marker out of suede is apparently impossible. Another time, last winter, a group of the Victoria’s Secret bras got drunk on Love Spell Body Mist and threw a bunch of freshmen into the freezers at Benihana because it’s tradition for the bras to throw anyone they can into a freezer. Ironic, I guess?
“You’re really putting me at ease,” I told her, and she replied, “Yeah, when it comes to presenting the bright side of things, I can’t say I’m very persuasive.” I laughed and told her I got the joke.
She looked at me confused, and I said, “Per-SUEDE-sive? . . . Suede?”
“Oh. I wasn’t meaning to make a joke,” she said. There was an awkward silence. “But freshman year is pretty tricky, so if I were you, I’d buckle up,” she said, pointing to her buckle. We both laughed like dorks and kept making dumb puns until we finally arrived at the MOA.
The back door lifted and it was an immediate free-for-all. Over the calamity of everyone grabbing their things, I could see it: a huge concrete building, surrounded by a sea of shipping trucks with clothing and accessories pouring out of each one. It was a playground of activity. Trouser pants pushed past me, evening gowns elbowed their way in, blazers were halting halter tops while fingerless gloves flirted with scarves and skirts screamed at jorts. How was I ever going to find Dr. Scholls in all of this? I grabbed my things and started to make my way toward any entrance I could find. I kept getting jostled around until I heard Birk’s voice yelling “Hey, Sweat! Sweatpants! Over here!”
I made my way over and found her standing with a pair of overalls. And those overalls were RIPPED, Diary. Allow me to be more specific: he was tattered and shredded in all the right places with a perfectly faded wash and brass hardware. I didn’t realize I was staring at him so hard until Birk kicked me in the knee. “Sweat, this is Rees, he’s a fellow sophomore. Rees, this is Sweat, she’s a freshman.”
“Rees?” I questioned.
“It’s short for Dungarees. It’s a family name.” God, he was so cool.
“Cool, yeah, Sweat is short for S-Sweatpants,” I stuttered like an IDIOT.
Grace’s sweatpants from Topshop
“Yeah, I figured.”
I froze. Duh. He’s not an idiot like you are. I couldn’t think of anything to say, I was so lost in his stitches. Just then a man’s voice came up, yelling, “Sweatpants! There you are!” It was Dr. Scholls. He introduced himself and gave me a huge hug. Sweet but SO embarrassing.
“Hi, Dr. Scholls,” Birk said.
“Oh, hello, Birk; hello, Rees. How were your summers?”
“Really great. I actually ended up doing the study abroad you recommended. The one in India,” Rees replied. INDIA?! OMG, HE’S SO COOL.
“Sweat, we’re gonna go find our storage containers; we’ll catch you later,” Birk said. She and Rees walked off and I couldn’t stop watching Rees’s back pockets until Dr. Scholls finally snapped me out of it.
“Let’s get you inside and settled. How was your ride?”
As I told him about my travels to get to the MOA, we made our way into the giant structure and I was immediately overwhelmed. The floors were so shiny, the stores were so bright, the music was so generic, and I was in heaven! Dr. Scholls walked me to the information desk, where we got in the longest line I’d ever seen in my life. “It moves quicker than it looks. We just need to pick up your registration,” he said. While we waited we talked about what classes I was most excited about and what supplies I should make sure to pick up. Dr. Scholls had a very delicate way about him; you could tell he was an old sole. Just as we were getting onto the topic of G-Wind, a pair of reading glasses behind the desk interrupted, asking for my name. That line did move fast!
“Sweatpants,” I told him.
He gave me a look, and after searching through his iPad, he said, “Not here.”
“Actually, I think it’s under ‘Scholls,’” the doctor replied, giving me a wink. I totally forgot! I’m here as Dr. Scholls’s granddaughter twice restocked. I’m in disguise. Thinking that made me feel so cool. But then I felt like a dork for feeling cool about it.
“You’re in the North Garden,” Glasses said, and handed me a welcome packet. “That’s this way, dear, toward Nordstrom.” Dr. Scholls started to lead me toward a long hallway when two identical sharp suits stepped into our path. “Is this her, Scholls, the granddaughter twice restocked?” one of the suits questioned.
Dr. Scholls seemed caught off guard. “Uh, yes, this is her. Dear, I’d like you to meet the superintendents of the MOA, the Brooks Brothers.” It was them. The men that banned my G-Wind all those years ago. I could understand immediately why G-Wind would hate these guys. They were too pressed, too fitted, too stiff. They looked like two money-laundering bank managers.
A swell of anger rose in me and I blurted out, “You guys look way too young to be the Brooks Brothers.” Dr. Scholls was shocked. “No offense,” I added.
“Well, dear, that’s, uh, maybe not—”
“Oh, don’t worry, Scholls, it’s okay. We get that all the time. We’ve had a lot of tailoring, dear,” one of them said to me with a slim smile. “We’re very happy to have you joining us this year; your essays were quite impressive. It seems that intelligence must run in the family.” As he said that he looked at Dr. Scholls, who was avoiding eye contact.
“Scholls, can we chat with you a moment?” the other superintendent asked.
“I’m sorry, would you excuse me?” Dr. Scholls said. “Will you be okay going to the North Garden without me? It’s just up there—if you pass the Claire’s, you’ve gone too far. But if you see Claire, tell her I said hello and that I’m still finding time to check out her new collection of septum rings, I haven’t forgotten.” I nodded and made sure to give the superintendents my most suspicious look before heading off down the hallway.
I got to my storage container right by the Sunglass Hut and started to unpack my things and map out my schedule for the week on the personal directory they gave me. This place is MASSIVE, Diary, and right as I was about to give up on getting anywhere on time, Birk and Rees stopped by and asked me if I wanted to grab some sushi. I tried to shove all my embarrassing stain sticks and extra waist cords under my shelves. “Oh God, did the Abercrombie & Fitch polos already send you a piss missile?” Rees said, walking over to the shoe box my G-Wind gave me before I left.
“NO!” I screamed, grabbing the box. Rees was so confused. “Uh, no, sorry, this is from home, actually. Just some personal stuff,” I said, trying to play it cool.
“Very cool,” Rees replied. “Homesickness is pretty common freshman year; you’re smart to plan ahead.” HE SAID I WAS SMART.
Over sushi, Birk and Rees filled me in on more of the important things I needed to know about the MOA. The kind of stuff they don’t print in the brochures. Like, that a piss missile is a prank the A&F polos pull on the freshmen by sending them anonymous shoe boxes of A&F boxers covered in piss and A&F cologne. You, and everything around you when you open the box, end up smelling awful for days. They also told me their conspiracy theory about the food at Chipotle being made with mind-control drugs since EVERYONE eats there constantly. We talked for a while about our families; Birk’s parents were students here and now teach underprivileged shoes at an outlet mall outside of Portland. Rees, on the other hand, was adopted by a well-to-do denim family. “I’m Lucky Brand,” he said.
“I may as well be adopted. I mean, I’m technically enrolled here in disguise,” I started to tell them.
“What do you mean?” Rees asked.
“Do you guys know about Black Friday?” They both looked at me like I dropped Kool-Aid on a pair of white pants. Before I could explain anything, a voice announced over the PA system, “Attention, students, the MOA will be closing in ten minutes, please return to your storage containers for the night.”
Suddenly we were being
hustled out of the food court by a bunch of suits. Birk and Rees looked at me, and Rees said, “We need to continue this conversation later!” When I got back to my storage container, I saw the shoe box my G-Wind left me sitting under a shelf.
I reached out to open it, and as soon as I tried to get the lid off, the voice of my G-Wind started up, saying “SweatG! It’s G-Wind! Is this working? Can you hear me? If you can hear me, then scoodily-doo! It wasn’t a waste of fifty dollars! I knew you’d try to open this thing before the right time, so I looked up this voice security system to freak you out. Are you freaked out? Good! I told you to wait to open this thing and you didn’t. But I understand. You’re probably overwhelmed right now. The MOA is a lot to take in. But you’re my SweatG, so I know you can handle it. Remember, even the shiniest floors get walked on. Does that make sense? Anyshoes, don’t try to open this until the right time, young ladypants. Okay? Okay. I love you, darling! Buh-bye! Don’t sweat the small stuff, that’s what I should have said, goddammit! Is this thing still recording? If it is, don’t sweat the small stuff, SweatG! Forget everything else I said! Love you!” And then there were three extra minutes of my G-Wind fumbling around because apparently she didn’t know how to turn off the recording.
I passed out right after it finished; I didn’t realize how tired I was. And now here I am the next morning, scrambling to fill you in on everything before I have to run to my first class. You couldn’t hear it, Diary, because you’re a Diary, but an Elton John song just started up over the PA system, which means we have five minutes to get to our first class. I’ll write in you again soon!
