It's 10 p.m. on a Wednesday night. Do you know what your roommates are wearing? If you are in college, chances are it's a bizarre mix of stripes, spandex and old T−shirts so eccentric hipsters would pay $3.75 for them at the Salvation Army. When I walk into my house, I never know what I'll find. Sometimes I am greeted by a crowd of classy−looking adults in real pants, shirts that fit and maybe even eyeliner. More often, however, I discover potentially crazy people on the couch, buried under a pile of blankets that I later identify as a combination of oversized sweatshirts, camp T−shirts, thermal leggings, men's underwear, animal sweaters, headbands and furry socks. I am no exception — once I am in for the night (and sometimes when I'm not) I can usually be found wearing at least three different patterns and often no pants. I put on several of my dad's old flannels at once plus T−shirts that have never seen the light of day, patterned boxers, striped knee high socks and my footies, which I believe normal people refer to as mukluks.
When we lived in the dorms, things were different — the line between public and private was blurred. We were constantly walking around in half−formulated outfits, running to and from the shower in towels, trading clothes and hanging out in PJs. We treated the hallways as an extension of our homes and several dozen fairly new acquaintances as extensions of our families. After Naked Quad Run hit, we really threw all caution to the wind, becoming exhibitionists of our bodies themselves.
Years after being a freshman, I continue to dress this very same way in my house, purely for comfort and with little concern for appearance. This has resulted in many nights running around the house in nylons and a shirt and hours spent in my towel after a shower. My housemates now have an intense familiarity with my father's, boyfriend's and ex−boyfriend's combined ugly sweater collection. This is hardly a departure from the exhilarating freedom of dress I discovered freshman year, but now that I live off−campus, my threads have taken on a more clandestine feel.
Every time I leave the house, I change into a normal outfit, even as every fiber of my being implores me not to. If I wear leggings out, I make sure that they actually cover my butt, my shirts all fit on me, my colors try their best not to clash, my underwear is on the inside of my clothes and all my buttons are matched up. As I inevitably shed this outfit onto my floor hours later and slip my beloved footies back on, I ask myself: Why all the effort? Yes, the clothes we wear in this house may be too few or too many and they certainly don't match or follow any kind of logical (or fashionable) outfit structure, but they feel good. Really good. Like I−could−open−a−beer−and−watch−"Friends"−reruns−in−this−outfit−for−the−rest−of−my−life−and−be−totally−content good.
As you may have realized at this point, college falls in an oddly placed gray area between two sections of "real life." My time here in this everywhere−is−your−living−room, young−people's haven is sadly coming to a close, and I am devastated to realize that this is actually the last time it will be potentially acceptable to leave the house exactly as I am within it. I am wasting an invaluable opportunity every time I attempt to color−coordinate or brush my hair. My last Naked Quad Run is now in sight and I urge everyone to participate, in honor of the fact that college is so crazy that we actually can run around naked by the hundreds. You better believe I will be running my little fashion−challenged heart out, even if it is in front of TUPD and some creepy, middle−aged men. I will put on my fave outfit and it will look horrendous.
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Jessie Borkan is a senior majoring in psychology. She can be reached at Jessie.Borkan@tufts.edu
