Stage 1: R.I.P. Kooky Sweater Girl. (... You Won't Be Missed)

When in college, I used to actively identify myself as being a Kooky-Glasses-Wearing Librarian; “Kooky Sweater Girl” for short. 

It wasn't hard to fit the bill: I had a number of discussion-provoking bifocals; spent much of my time hanging out in beautiful libraries; + held a love for pleated skirts that was/is/forever-will-be undying.

And, of course, there were all those sweaters...

MAKE. IT. STOP.

If I reflect on what may have spurred my sweater addiction, I guess it comes down to two fundamental neuroses:

1. my endless campaign to bring more love to the under-valued genre(s) of fiber art (trapunto & yurt construction 4eva~~~). # Naysayers gonna naysay.
2. my true, deep, and eternal passion for sifting through thrift stores. 'Cause it's the treasure hunt that never ends, y'all.

#2 is the clincher in my sweater-addiction. See, the metaphysical law ruling vintage retailers worldwide is that—no matter the locale, tone, price-range, etc— they are inevitably filled with ornate, forgotten sweaters. Piles & piles & piles of ‘em.

True heaven is a place on earth... where everything costs $1; smells vaguely of BO.

There were also some practical reasons for procuring many wool-based garments. I was born & raised on the frigid streets of the D and then shivered through 4 years of higher ed in the Windy City... I had to stock up on cold-weather apparel to survive! A girl's gotta stay warm, aight?

(Read on, after the jump!)

But it was not just I that needed these sweaters, let's be clear.

In my sweater-must-addled brain, I told myself these lost forgotten sweaters needed me as well: to rescue them from West-Loop-bargain-bin doom! To bring their majestic folk-art patterns back into the sun! To love them as they had not been loved since 1983! 

I mean, ### I WAS THEIR BESPECTACLED SAVIOR GUYS #### RATIONAL THINKING ###

In this way, in high school & college, my personal Liza-brand quickly became synonymous with kooky sweaters. Of course: I was not alone—there are/were/will eternally be other kooky sweater girls. In truth, Chicago is full of them. (You know this girl. She really like cats; Cat Power; cat-eyed glasses. Aaaand veganism.)

But eventually, the real world life / NYC hustle hardened my aesthetic. I one day realized: Kooky Sweater Girl I am no longer.

In fact, I found myself entering vintage stores, identifying a kooky sweater, and cringing as I heard my shopping-companion remark, “LIZA <<< THIS WEIRD OLD GIANT 80S SWEATER WITH A NEON GLITTER RHINO ON IT IS ~~~SOoOOoOOOoooO~~~ YOU.” 

I know they meant well, nevertheless.... Oh, how this sentiment of my own stereotypical self makes my stomach turn and my skin crawl. OOF.

& The only person really at fault was this guy, your truly. For indeed I lived out a strange kooky-sweater-girl minstrel show, for years and years. 

I created Kooky Sweater Girl. And now I must bury her in the ground. Good effing riddance.

For this reason: Today, when I spot a sequined-adorned flamingo motif woven in neon-pink-glitter-thread, it gives me great pause. 

First, I acknowledge the work’s commercial-fiber-art majesty. Some fundamental truths simply cannot be denied.

Next: I realize that I am a horrific horrific stereotype of myself and this makes me literally gag in my mouth / feel incredible disgust (or maybe that’s just all ‘dem mold spores from the kooky sweater bin…)

Finally, with >2 seconds of reflection it becomes clear: tomorrow starts today, woman. Do not buy that sweater; walk away from the sweater. 

..... RUN AWAY IF YOU MUST.

For any of my readership bemoaning the death of Kooky Sweater Girl, understand this: I apologize for your trauma; it must be difficult for you to no longer have a figure to whom you can suggest ridiculous-sweater purchases. Rulllll difficult.

But you must understand: I went through some real-world (bull)shit these past few years, yo. Literal new layers of skin were formed in the process—so HELL NO will I continue to don apparel that suggests I am chowing on tofu in an attic filled with cats.

I’m a tough guy now, y’all. And tough guys do not wear kooky sweaters. (Though they do enjoy parkas; urban blight; leather.)

I will now take a moment to acknowledge all y’all who are scratching your heads, wondering: “why is this girl describing her wardrobe as if ... it were ... a person?”

WELL. I am kind of joking, first of all. Kind of. (Though even Rachel Zoe agrees that defining “three words that describe your personal style” is useful when choosing shit. SO JUST GO WITH IT OKAY?)

But it must be noted that NYC is a veritable fashion mecca—this is a place where having a point of view on your street style is essential.

Hard scientific fact (... not) has proven that within 1 year of moving to NYC, most NY-transplants throw out ~90% of the clothes they brought with them from their place of origin. Even if you were once simply the most fashion-forward maven of Akron Ohio / Miami, Florida / rural Oregon—you live in NYC now, dude. ## TIME 2 UP YOUR GAME $$$$ ###

Bitches on these streets look good, and you have to #KeepUp. Key to #keepingup is developing a refined fashion perspective, throwing out your old weird shit, and running with arms open into the new. And not (seriously: NOT) looking back to your pile of sweaters, in longing.

Also, procuring some ankle boots—that is also key. Don’t ask me why.

Thus, from the scorched-earth remnants of Kooky Sweater Girl, the Spooky (1970s) Park Ranger of North Gowanus was born. If you are (for the billionth time in this post) scratching your head re: what the eff I am referring to: worry not. It's a thing, you'll see.

Patent pending. Identity shifting. Spookiness unending.

Me & my new spooky stead.

Also: for those of you wondering what happened to all my/your fave kooky sweaters: most of them were donated to Goodwill / thus will inevitably end up in a large thrift-store sweater pile / thus will end up in a pile similar to the large thrift-store sweater pile from whence they came. 

@@@@@@@ Circle of kooky sweater life @@@@@@

And, of course, I saved a few of my faves. I have not suffered a complete rupture from my former self, you know. Spooky park rangers gotta stay warm!