The Yellow Jacket

I am infrequently reminded that a shard of my heart experiences intense happiness from finding the perfect finishing touch to a carefully crafted outfit. I often forget the lusty sartorial dreams I once had, which consisted of school day afternoons spent thumbing through Teen Vogue, studying the young and privileged and learning about the inside of their bedrooms, googling how to say Comme des Garçons and Monique Lhuillier, not that either of those names (or any others) would come up in conversation at eleven years old.

I like going to Church Street and walking really fast and loudly with fake purpose when really I’m just trying to figure out if I should go into Uncommon Grounds despite the death of their espresso machine. I’ve done this for four days in a row (two of those days I broke and caffeinated myself). Today was different. Today it was so cold, which if this is cold I think I might explode in the winter because it’s going to be so bad, and I curled my hair. Curling my hair was a real turning point because nothing was cooperating this morning, and that made me feel like I had it all together.

It was a Regina Spektor morning, complete with days-old lemon water and a few pages of a img_4674book, confused as to why so many wet paintings were on my common room floor (this weekend I tried to make friends and they let me use their Tempura paint).

Sometimes I heavily rotate Regina Spektor, Vampire Weekend, Beirut in tandem, and they all seem to relate, just like Glass Animals, Tame Impala, and MGMT. And when my hair is curled, my boots are brown, and my eyeliner isn’t too fucked up, it’s the former. When my hair is bunned, my boots are converse, and my eyeliner is either nonexistent or too existent, it’s the latter. I annoy myself because I go between these two personalities the most, and I can never seem to pick. I know I shouldn’t pick, and I’m just a confusing person, but the yellow jacket makes the Regina Spektor, Vampire Weekend, Beirut me make more sense.

I like the yellow jacket me. She studies, she writes, she reads, she appreciates the blessing of being outside. She is quiet, she eats and researches, she says minimal hellos and goodbyes and people compliment her clothes. She gets up early to make tea and never runs out of money because she is financially stable and can afford to buy a coffee on a whim because she’s that good. She reads the news and lights candles and knows when to go to bed. She can give an elevator speech and her wallet is organized.img_4672

Yellow jacket me has always been there, and is slowly coming out of her shell to coexist in a world where so many yellow jacket types do not flourish. Yellow jacket me asked for a job at the store where they sell wine candles, and yellow jacket me is applying to transfer schools.

The yellow jacket is a size ten, the perfect fit, doesn’t make me look fat. It was someone else’s once, because there is a perfectly folded tissue in the right pocket. It is Tory Burch and as I was putting it on to wear out of the store over my seersucker button-down shirt Washed Out began to play and a curl fell out of place and I walked out of the store thinking of my younger self, thinking of how cool it was that I tried on a Nanette Lepore skirt, comparing myself to Massie Block and thinking about my fashion journals.

My suite mate compared me to Blair Waldorf and I opened up my application to Marist again.

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