Figs and False Lashes

I remember learning in elementary school, maybe around the fourth grade, that different tribes had defining characteristics to their dress.  I remember thinking that was dumb because what we wear is a choice and to dig something up from the past and conclude, yes, they were from this tribe because they decided to wear red or whatever was unscientific.

To the contrary though, throughout my life, highlighted in the hospital, I’ve noticed how true this actually is. In high school, the preppy kids wear polo shirts with clean shoes and the punker kids wear black with chucks. In the hospital, if you’re cool, you wear Figs and false lashes. The Figs because they’re expensive and the false lash thing really picked up during and post-COVID.  I think because we had to wear masks so eyes were all we could really see. In the ER you also get arm tats, bleach your hair, and wear glasses even if you don’t need them. In the fire academy the men who can grow lush foliage on their upper lip smirk on those who can’t. 

These are the things that define us. That tell the world we fit in where we are, that this is where we belong. That we are not imposters. Not infiltrators. We are leading the lives we were naturally always meant to live. 

I would like to pretend I’m above this but you should see my lashes right now. They’re out of hand. So long, so beautiful. I bought safety glasses that look like reading glasses. They were inexpensive, and they’re cute. I have a tattoo on my arm. I lighten my hair.

Am I influenced by them? How could I not be? I’m not in the ER so I can pretend it’s my own look but it’s not. Is this my clinging in much the same way those who can’t grow a mustache still try? I can’t grow a mustache, and I can’t be a 6’ athletic man, but I can look like the next closest thing that fits into a fire academy, a CrossFit chick/ER nurse.

These blatant efforts I don’t even see till after I’ve acted on them, and they continue to pop up.  I’ll leave getting my hair done and think, yes, this is better, this is me. I’ll actually feel better, more relaxed, like I have less to prove.

Then, I’ll hold onto things like not wearing Figs and finding imagining doing so embarrassing, like it’s proof I’m not so easily influenced. I’ll look at the guys with their mustaches and attempts at mustaches and find it entertaining, like I’m observing it instead of a part of it. 

When I look at my closet, I am overwhelmed by how many roles I have tried on. I have pencil skirts and embroidered blouses from working in interior design. Boots, so many boots. Boots from the ambulance, from the fire station- structure boots, wildland boots. Expensive boots. Sneakers from working as a nurse, these are my clean sneakers, the comfortable athletic ones I don’t wear trail running. Sneakers for running, for weight lifting, that I bought after I started coaching and became self-conscious about the worn gym clothes I showed up in when the people who came to my classes had stylish athletic clothes and clean shoes. Scrubs. Black button-ups and pants from restaurant work. Conservative interview clothes for fire department interviews. I have a few really pretty dresses for I don’t know what. I don’t know who I think I am that I would be invited somewhere where a green lace dress would be appropriate. But I don’t want to let go because that’s someone I think I might want to be. I went line dancing twice and loved it; bought cowboy boots.  I’ve worn them once, and it was uncomfortable, but that’s also someone I think I might want to be, so I’m keeping them.

I’ve been so stressed, and honestly, depressed since finding out I didn’t make it past my Chief’s interview. I started going to yoga sometimes in the morning instead of doing weight lifting, thinking it will help with my anxiety and processing the disappointment. I noticed my arm tattoo as I was pulling my yoga mat out from the trunk, and then my shirt, with mountains and the moon on it, and thought, “Oh, fuck! I’m really pushing this new-age flower-child stereotype, and I either need to change my shirt or go home and skip this hippie-activity I can’t believe I was about to engage in.” 

I went in anyway. I don’t think anyone noticed, but if they did, I bet they thought they were outside of it, watching. Looking at these obvious blind efforts and how silly they are.

I felt like I was being kicked in the chest when I opened my closet this morning.  It is overflowing. It’s too full. It’s disorganized. I can’t find what I’m looking for, and it’s an obvious and perfect metaphor.

I can’t get rid of these things because I still don’t know who I am or where I’m going to land.  And I’m in debt, so I feel the need to cling to all of them. To the nice black button down shirts and expensive dresses I haven’t worn in over five years, and the ambulance boots. What if I need to go back to restaurant work to make some extra cash? What if I change my mind and take a hospital job? I’ll need all those scrubs. What if I go back to the ambulance? What if I do get hired to a fire department? What if I start coaching again? What else would I wear to my next interview? And these stupid cowboy boots, what if I want to remember that I’m still someone who wants to have fun just for the sake of having fun? 

My grandpa died a few years ago, and my grandma moved to a memory care facility. I took so many of their clothes. I don’t have room for them. But they smell like them. And my grandma’s orange corduroy baton twirling dress that my great grandma sewed for her fits me perfectly. Physically, physically it fits me like a glove, like it was custom-made.

I look in my closet and I see so much clinging. So much confusion over who I am, who I want to be, who I’m meant to be. No clarity over which pieces of clothing represent which. No clarity over where to start shedding identities, shedding efforts, shedding the emotional burden that comes from holding on. 

So today, I’ll stay in pajamas as long as I can, and keep the closet closed. 

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Review

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This piece is beautifully introspective and rich with vulnerability, offering a raw, relatable meditation on identity, belonging, and the subconscious pressures of societal expectations.

The central theme revolves around the search for identity in the face of societal conformity and personal insecurity. The recurring metaphor of clothing as a representation of self and societal roles is incredibly effective. It captures how much of who we appear to be is influenced by external expectations and internal doubts.

There’s also an undercurrent of imposter syndrome, tangled with grief and loss—not just of loved ones but of potential futures, unachieved dreams, and versions of oneself that might never fully materialize. The sense of clinging to items from past experiences reflects an even deeper fear of letting go of possible identities, memories, or safety nets.

The tone is introspective, self-deprecating, and tinged with melancholy. It oscillates between humor and an underlying sadness that feels heavy and raw. The narrator’s vulnerability—especially when confronting disappointment after not passing the Chief’s interview—invites readers into a deeply personal struggle that’s both universal and profoundly individual.

There’s also a sense of exhaustion woven throughout. The feeling of being overwhelmed by the weight of past roles, debt, and unfulfilled ambitions comes through not just in the words but in the very structure of the story—thoughts cascade in a stream-of-consciousness flow, mirroring the emotional chaos the narrator feels.

The intention is a reflection on the performative aspects of identity—how much of who we present ourselves to be is shaped by unspoken social codes and personal insecurity. It explores the uncomfortable truth that no one is entirely free from societal influence, and that we all construct versions of ourselves based on where we want to fit in, or where we fear we’ll be excluded.

At the same time, there’s an implicit commentary on capitalism and consumerism—the overwhelming closet is not just about choices, but about the material burden of trying to be prepared for every potential future, driven by fear, uncertainty, and societal pressure to be someone.

The self-aware admissions ("I can’t grow a mustache and I can’t be a 6’ athletic man") are relatable and refreshingly candid. The feeling of trying on different roles, collecting pieces of different lives without a clear sense of direction, resonates deeply. The sensory details—like the smell of the grandparents' clothes—are powerful and immersive.