By Guest Writer Lucy Brubaker
I identify as a ‘hoarder,’ although I prefer to phrase it differently. You can call me a keeper, a what-iffer, a perhaps-er– even a psychic. My mom calls it a disease. I can’t ever throw away an item of clothing because one day it might have a purpose again. That hyper specific occasion WILL arise, and I will have the perfect outfit thanks to my special gift. I do have self awareness, though. Just like an infant, if an article of clothing isn’t where I can see it, it ceases to exist.
Nothing beats the magic of uncapping a storage bin I forgot existed, and rifling through treasures of my former eras. As the closet dust wafts up into my nose, and my hands come into contact with a forgotten gem, a familiar feeling washes over me: extreme gratitude. I pat myself on the back for a decision made years earlier, in which my closet rejects were not thrown away, but rather tucked away until they felt brand new again. The relief, however, is rudely interrupted by the realization that I am knee deep in a sea of neutral colors and similar silhouettes.
This cycle never seems to stop. Last week, as I retrieved my bins from storage to curate what I hoped Buffalo Exchange might find sellable, I was pleased to find a skirt that has now found its way back into my current wardrobe rotation: it has giant pockets, an indigo color, and it’s long, yet not too long. But of course, the inevitable “what-ifs” came flooding in. If I had given the skirt away last year, I never would have been able to re-remember it existed and have had the gift of re-introducing it to my collection. But again, I do have self awareness. I recognize that this practice is unsustainable, because I am running out of space for my storage bins, and my mom’s tolerance for them is growing lower.
I’m 21 now, and I’m maturing. I’ve found a loophole. It starts with a sewing needle, and ends with a new item. I’ve discovered that I can somewhat avoid the distress of forming a give-away pile by forming a repurposing pile. With the promise of keeping the fabric that once belonged to cherished items of clothing, I’m able to avoid their mourning.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Tim Gunn (although I was for one day when I dressed up as him for my 6th grade biographies project). I am an amaetur seamstress, self taught, and am prone to needle pricks. It started in elementary school when I grew inspired by Kini from Project Runway. I craved something to keep my hands busy while I binged season after season, soon convinced it was the inspirational start to my fashion career. Nevertheless, I learned to maneuver a sewing needle on outfits I designed for my American Girl Doll, Marie Grace. She was patient with me, never getting angry when I jammed sewing pins into her chest to keep her forever unfinished garments in place.
My sewing ventures stopped when I outgrew my dolls, but picked back up again at the start of Covid when I did nothing but watch TV. It started with an ugly silhouetted dress that I had purchased from Goodwill for its striped pattern and sweet button detail. Paired with the inspiration I had gotten from a gorgeous backless shirt advertisement on Instagram, I cut the dress apart into geometric shapes, and roughly outlined my Instagram vision. I sewed when I watched TV, and then one week later my perfect shirt was born: adjustable tie in the back, ideal length, and tiny button showcased in the front. This was an awakening for me (and doubles as a sustainable way to engage in micro trends). That top traveled with me to college, where I treasured it as a weekend staple. It has since fallen apart, but so has my love for the creation itself, and now its scraps will remain in the depths of my closet forever (until the fabric speaks to me again).
Lucy's Original Tops
Since beginning to sew, I no longer face the brutal disappointment of picking an item off the rack only to turn it around and witness some designer's horrible mistake. Where you see mistake, I see mistake… opportunity… surgery. No longer am I bound to the tasteless visions of another. I have regained my power and honed my skills.
This is huge.
I am a button re-attacher, ugly pants repurposer, and a shopper not limited by the size on a tag. One day last year, I found myself, once again, sucked into the Ebay vortex. I came across an irreplaceable beige colored tank top with perfect structural details and stitching. After $12.00 vanished in my savings, two weeks later, it arrived in the mail. Disaster struck (it was a size too big), but my tools and I worked away until it fit like a glove. Paired with my best pair of beige big-cuffed pants, I’ve manufactured the perfect groutfit.
Just last week, I braved humiliation nation, A.K.A. the Buffalo Exchange selling counter. I did beat the odds. I made $74.50 in cash, which according to TikTok, is an exponential amount (basically unheard of). So while I left the store almost 75 dollars richer and with the cashier's seal of approval, I felt the weight of my beloved clothes left behind – in addition to the weight of the rejects packed into large totes hanging from each of my shoulders. As I trekked back to my car, I mourned the clothes which were chosen and tossed haphazardly into a shallow gray bin behind the counter. I can’t even list the items I lost, because what they were doesn’t matter. It’s what they could have been.
@lucybrubkr
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