It was during my freshman year of college that I found solace in fashion. Even though I drove home almost every weekend, I felt isolated and unhappy. I had no interest in my classes; I had only one friend at school whom I saw infrequently; I had nothing in common with my roommate and so we did not speak. I was still terrified of the city and never explored. It was a lonely time, and when I was not in class or doing homework, I found myself sitting in the café section of Borders poring over fashion magazines.
At Borders (RIP!), I did more than browse; I consumed. I bought dozens of magazines that I lugged back to my dorm room, flicking through them with a hunger for art, color, and excitement. I would spend hours looking at photographs of the runway shows on Style.com, and would feel elated when I recognized those clothes in editorials. Fashion magazines were bibles, gateways to a world in which I desperately wanted to take part. I collected them as tokens of my dedication to fashion. They were a record of my growth, of who I had become and (hopefully) where I was going. For years, I have kept those magazines on bookshelves, on nightstands, in cabinets, in boxes, in closets. But last week, I made a decision. I hauled out all of my magazines and stacked them up—three, maybe four hundred glossies, some that have been with me since high school—and, with my generous mother’s help, I threw them away. Happily.