Parenting
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During the Covid pandemic, our wardrobes underwent a significant transformation. The entire world was turned upside down, and our clothing choices became a perfect metaphor for the disorder of this time. I wore so few bras that I’ve lost track of them, and I’m convinced that stock in Champion surged as everyone around the globe embraced the comfort of sweatpants. What was once seen as “giving up” on style turned into a cozy acceptance of our new reality. We ditched the restrictive pencil skirts and crisp collared shirts—shoes included.
Now that some restrictions have eased, it seems everyone else is stepping up their style game, opting for flattering pants and smart footwear. As for me? Not so much.
For years, I’ve secretly wished to return to the uniform days of my high school, where we wore drab, knee-length houndstooth skirts and dingy white oxfords. I even had a breast-reducing vest, a polyester pullover that did its job a little too well. The only way we could spice up our outfits was with micro-heeled shoes, and I stuffed a treasure trove of cheap, painfully stylish flats under my bed.
After graduating in 1985 and escaping the confines of an all-girls Catholic school, I splurged my birthday money on a wardrobe overhaul. While today’s expressions of individuality often come through tattoos and piercings, back then, our choices were limited to stirrup pants, oversized shoulder pads, and flashy cropped sweatshirts. My closet overflowed with these choices.
Looking back, it’s not just the styles that embarrass me; it’s the sheer volume of clothing. Yet, when I glance into my closet now, I’m hardly any better. My hangers groan under the weight of business-casual attire, despite not having stepped into a semi-professional work environment in over fifteen years. I seem to possess every knit or crocheted piece made between 1977 and the 2010s, and skirts? Don’t even get me started.
Amidst this clothing chaos, I’ve fantasized about jumpsuits taking center stage in fashion. Not the expensive, dry-clean-only versions, but something reminiscent of the classic khaki coveralls worn by the T-Birds during “Go Greased Lightning” in Grease. Unfortunately, my nephew runs a garage, but it’s not the 1950s, so such finds remain elusive.
In mid-2020, though, I stumbled upon something even better: my oversized, low-crotch “pandemic overalls.” Initially, they were just for lounging at home, an efficient way to avoid awkward moments with my kids when I sprawled on the couch. Soon, I found myself wearing them to Starbucks and walking the dogs before dawn.
I grew quite attached to these overalls. I could wear them for days (or let’s be honest, all days), layering up on chilly mornings or shedding layers on warmer ones. The best part? Rolling out of bed, slipping them over my pajamas, and feeling dress-ready without the hassle. I distilled my cluttered wardrobe into one fabulous full-body outfit, and it felt liberating.
I had expected to retire the overalls eventually, but they’re not going anywhere. I wear them grocery shopping, to tennis matches, and even coffee dates with friends. Surprisingly, I’ve received three compliments in the past 400+ days—three more than I anticipated.
Not everyone shares my enthusiasm. During my last visit to my mother’s house, she was inches from forbidding me to wear them outside. My brother insists I can’t join him at church in those overalls, and some guy suggested I looked like I stepped off the set of Deliverance.
Nevertheless, these comfy, questionable fashion choices are here to stay because they make me feel good. I embrace a carefree spirit when I wear them. They’re so roomy that I feel the air flow freely, and nothing pinches or digs into my skin. I don’t have to fuss with positioning tags or worry about my stomach or thighs—just pure comfort.
Despite societal pressures (yes, Mom, I’m talking about you) to appear “presentable” and “feminine,” I refuse to conform. I might consider investing in a few nicer pairs for special occasions, but my everyday uniform is here to stay. Who knows? Maybe I’ll inspire others to follow suit and reduce their wardrobes to practical, so-unflattering-they-are-flattering denim overalls.
For now, I’m simply content, having found what feels like the love of my life in my beloved overalls.