I know I’m getting old because I’m finally getting to dress nostalgically for my youth. My youth—say it breathy, getting to a whisper as your tongue presses against your front teeth with the th. My youth. The nineties.
Yesterday I pushed a pearl stud through my earlobe’s second hole, grateful to my elementary school self for getting those done at the Rideau Mall back in ’98. And you bet my hot aging ass that that tiny hole above my belly button, vacant since 2005, is getting a fresh barbell this summer. The nineties are back. They’ve been coming since they left, but now it’s all about the details, the subtleties of the time—the DM sandals and the Birkenstock clogs, the cotton string bikini panties, the wide denim. Give me ’90s minimalism. Give me Guinevere Van Seenus in a white spaghetti strap tank top. Give me an ear cuff. Give me Leonardo DiCaprio’s haircut in Romeo+Juliet. Give me Winona’s sunglasses, Helmut Lang emergency orange, a nylon Prada backpack, crop tops, top-to-toe-tartan. Give me a boyfriend with a buzz cut who likes to try on my dresses.
Fashion doesn’t typically reward aging, except in nostalgia; nothing feels as good as nostalgia looks. The nineties are back. I’m happy to be getting old.