In June, for the first time in months, I looked in the mirror and felt like myself. Almost. With New York City reopening, a few friends and I had planned our first in-person hang, which meant getting dressed for other people—a foreign concept considering I had lived in solitude and sweat shorts for the majority of quarantine. Putting together an outfit for the excursion felt more like excavating an archaeological dig: I felt distant from the person who wore Nikes beat to hell from nights spent dancing, pants broken in from days at my desk in the company of others. But if my unworn clothes carried a charge, it was for another reason, too: my time alone in quarantine led to an undeniable shift in how I moved about the world, and my closet hadn’t quite caught up.
After much experimentation and many regrettable ASOS purchases, I reached a point