In the beginning there was food, animals and nudity. Life was perfect. But after the original A-listers ate the dang juicy fruit, “The Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them” (Genesis 3:21). This, to me, is the most tragic single verse in the Bible (the crucifixion was devastating, but occurred over a multi-verse span). Before this event, humankind was not cursed with the daily task of assembling weather/class/life-appropriate garb. They were able to focus on other things like naming the animals, each other and other things. I would be willing to submit that the curse of clothing was even slightly more harmful to the broad scheme of humanity than the whole “pain during childbirth” ordeal. I mean, have you Seen Crocs?
This is obviously all filtered through my heavy-handed homeschool bias.
As a child, I was allowed to roam free, naked, and happy, occasionally donning a robe, a slip or a onesie depending on the company. In high school, I clung to my thick cargo sweats, button up tees, and XXL leather jacket combos like they were the only logical ensemble –– all the comfort of bed wrapped in a breathable bad-ass cow skin (yes, just like Adam). To me, color-coordination meant finding matching socks or making sure everything I wore on Tuesdays was the same shade of rich dark brown. While other children were spending their money on ripped jeans and “layers,” I fattened my adolescent self on “Magic School Bus” reruns and Cup Noodles. I was perfectly content on wearing the four-year-old puke-green sweater along with those navy pinstripe dress pants with the hole in the butt –– just add my sheepskin slippers, and voila! The love child of Hugh Hefner and Ronald McDonald just walked into third period biology.
But I am now an adult, matured and educated, who firmly believes that all justifications for the existence of clothing in general are moot points (outside of warmth and occasional disgust prevention). Personal expression? I am truly devastated to hear that your ability to verbally, physically, artistically and textually express yourself has suddenly vanished, leaving your wardrobe as the only conceivable method of advertising your “personal expression.” This story that your clothes are telling me is profoundly heartbreaking, and I can tell by your scarf, non-prescription glasses, TOMS and argyle socks that it only gets worse.
I’m not saying that Pepperdine should abandon its religious and historical association with clothing and become some hippie nudist convent like Westmont. But isn’t it sad to think that your farm twin (we all have undiscovered identical copies of ourselves that live on farms in either Montana or Kentucky –– this is a fact) may have the exact same story to share with the world as you, but because of socio-economic differences, he or she cannot afford your mullet skirt (the weird new mini skirt in the front, ball gown in the back)? Kendra, your farm twin, is now forced to convey that story through use of barn art and burlap kites, while wearing yak-nipple pendants and baggy jeggings (nothing against Montana). While we claim to treasure her story equally, Kendra winds up unheard and happily married with 17 children, knitting bikinis for homeless women. In conclusion, clothing instantly denotes status; status is the root of hatred; and hatred kills. Therefore, clothing kills.
Personally, I am happiest while playing the piano in the buff, with a Diet Coke and my teddy bear sitting nearby. No judgment, no presuppositions, just me, expressing myself how I know best. If you know me, you know that when forced to clothe myself, I stick to graphic tees and flannels that cost less than $10. My story changes every day, and I can’t afford to have my clothes keep up with it. Instead of designer labels, clothing should be saying, “Isn’t it sad that I can’t say this out loud?” I’d wear one. Does it come in puke green?
