A week without ... jeans

"That girl over there, she's going to hook up with me tonight," I overheard an upperclassman say to a friend last Saturday, while he looked lecherously at me. That's when it hit me: At the Street, your appearance only matters from the waist up. I had spent an entire evening in sweatpants, and not a single person had remarked on, or even seemed to notice, them. My regular Street uniform of jersey dresses or cute tops with jeans had been replaced at the stroke of midnight by heather grey cotton emblazoned with "PRINCETON" on one side, and nothing. Nothing. My week without jeans made me rethink everything I know about clothes.

The first piece of advice I ever remember my mother giving me is, "it's always better to be overdressed than underdressed." We were in the '87 Volvo station wagon, headed for church, and I was wearing a dress made of an itchy combination of velvet and lace. My stepsister, much to my jealousy, had already graduated to the business casual attire of nice pants and a blouse.

But in spite of my wriggling during Sunday morning sermons, my mother's advice struck a chord with me and has served me well. I've never faced the embarrassment of going to an interview or a party grossly underdressed. I've enjoyed cultivating my own style, which, while not stiffly formal, is probably dressier than most of my generation's. Then again, at Princeton, dress shirts and polos, plaids and wool coats rival the typical domination of sweats, tees and puffer jackets at other college campuses.

So, when it came time to sacrifice something for the week, I quickly decided to adopt a more casual look. More specifically, I gave up my jeans, tights and dresses and slipped on a pair of U-Store-purchased sweatpants. Then, I went a week without changing out of them. I did, it should be noted for the sake of clarity, put on pajamas for sleeping and indulge in a few trips to the Feinberg laundry machines. While superficial, the change was drastic.

On my first night out in my sweatpants, guys didn't react any differently to my new style, and though I suspect some girls noticed, they didn't say anything. But I felt different. As long as no one else cared about my wearing sweatpants, having them on was great. In the immortal words of Cher Horowitz, my party clothes are so binding. The sweats were loose and warm but not stuffy. In other words, they were perfect. I didn't mind when they were spilt on, and I didn't spend the entire evening tugging at them or pulling them up. My week was looking promising.

As my experiment went on, other benefits to wearing sweatpants all the time became apparent. After breaking my fishbowl and sending my fish down a four-foot drop, I didn't mind getting on my hands and knees in our now-flooded bathroom to save him. I just washed my pants and put them back on.

But soon I began to feel different in my new clothes. Wearing sweatpants became an excuse for a blase attitude about everything. Any attempts to dress up the grey cotton — with cashmere sweaters, nautical tees or satin on top — slowly faded. My confidence was gone, and I missed people noticing what I was wearing. I began to feel like the lone tree in the middle of the fashion forest. I was fall, but no one could hear me.

So I did what any good Episcopalian does come Lent: I cheated. I had purchased a blue satin sleeveless dress with black colorblocking from Proenza Schouler for Target (this whole high-end/low-end fashion exchange has got to be the greatest thing ever) and decided that I needed to try it on for my friends. On a fashion high, I rushed to Frist, without changing back into my sweatpants, to grab some dinner. And though I was only out for a few minutes, everything suddenly felt better. I noticed that I was able to make sustained eye contact again, that I had the door opened for me multiple times, that I stood taller. Call me old-fashioned or anti-feminist, but being in a dress made me feel better.

The next Saturday, at midnight, I put my jeans back on. My legs had forgotten what denim felt like, how it formed to me instead of draping lazily to the sides. But in a moment they became reacquainted. After this week, my sweatpants might make a weekly appearance in lectures. But I can't promise the same for the Street.