This is going to sound ridiculous, but a few years back when I bought my beautiful bike, Dot, I became obsessed with getting a matching brown leather backpack. I envisioned riding around on my gorgeous cream colored bike — with brown handlebars and a brown leather seat — wearing a matching backpack in which I would carry my odds and ends.

Back when I was looking, backpacks really weren’t back in vogue yet. Now, it seems as though the 90’s have returned with a bang. And, with that era comes the small, girly backpacks of Friends and Felicity fame. I have been seeing them everywhere. Particularly on the younger generation. So, I’m having a bit of a dilemma. Do I get a backpack? Do I join the masses? Am I too old for this fad? I really wish I had gotten one years back so I could feel, you know, validated by being ahead of the trend.

Now, it just feels like I’m following a trend. I hate that. I don’t know why. Who cares? In fact, shouldn’t it be a source of great pride? Especially considering my yearning to fit in for all those years? I can’t quite explain it. But, all I know is that I have an intense desire to go against the norm.

This is all coming up because I just walked by my dream backpack. It was in the window of what I like to call a, triple-digit-boutique. You know, the stores you don’t even think about entering, because there are no price tags in the single or double digits.

But, it’s beautiful. It’s a medium brown leather, it’s the perfect size, it has these really cool closures made entirely of slightly darker stained leather pieces. It’s art. Perhaps that’s how I could justify its purchase? As a piece of artwork that I can enjoy and pass down to my offspring? Agh. Even I can’t swallow that. But, it’s so pretty!

When I was a kid, I had my own sense of style. A style which generated the argyle sock incident of 93′. “Are you wearing your grandpa’s socks?!” Rachel had asked me and then burst into laughter. I was wearing knee-high blue and yellow socks that I thought were the coolest. Then there was the rumor in 6th grade that all my clothes came from the thrift store (gasp!) which, as it turned out, was mostly true. That was before thrifting was hip. In 95′ I was the “dyke” at my high school both because I had a proclivity toward boys and girls and because (mostly because, in fact) I had short hair. In a school of 3,000 I was the only person who both identified as female and also had short hair. It was a dark time in my small town. And, it was pre-Halle Berry looking all shorn and gorgeous.

I look around and see stylish people, lots of them in fact, because I live in New York City. And, I love the way they look. The seemingly effortless flawlessness. The aura of confidence and cool. The way their shoes are the perfect match for their shorts, which cling in all the right ways. And, their shirts are spotless and pressed and their necklaces hang just so. And their hair? Well, it’s just a different universe on top of those heads. Filled with curling irons and hairsprays, gels and products of all varieties.

So many beautiful people. It’s great, honestly. Makes for wonderful people-watching. But, I also can’t help but sort of look down at my dingy, coffee-stained blouse, my gap shorts and my Park Slope mom shoes and think, who is this person? How does my style reflect who I am? When you’re young you have the luxury of wearing your personality on your outsides. Then, you get a job and you have to start conforming to certain standards and dress codes (depending on the job, I suppose). It’s so limiting. Because, the truth is, if you work five days a week (or more) then you’re mostly wearing work clothes. And, if you’re mostly wearing work clothes then you’re mostly buying them. Then, before you know it, you dress that way on your days off too. Because, what if you run into the super conservative parent of the child in your class whilst wearing your shortest, tattered jeans and a tiny tank top with no bra?

This is how it happened. Slowly. It crept through my wardrobe one item at a time. I bought one pair of gap shorts then four more. A simple gingham top and then a denim one and then that was all I had. Then, I needed comfortable shoes because…I’m on my feet all day and I have back issues. I had a baby and grew two sizes so tons of things just got tossed out (never to be seen or heard from again — the clothes or the previous dress size) and it continued on down the line. I never go out, this dress will probably never fit again, it’s ripped anyhow, and on and on.

Sometimes I think about dying my hair or shaving half my head and I know it would shift peoples’ perception of me. Some would think I was way cooler. Some wouldn’t hardly notice. A few would be offended and some might even have the audacity to complain. My first job working as a teacher’s assistant up in Yonkers in 2001 was a disaster due to my fashion choices. I worked for half a day before being pulled aside by my supervisor who told me the principal was concerned about my appearance and that, unless I took my septum ring out, I would not be allowed to continue working there.

I refused. And, got fired. But, that was fourteen years ago. Before I needed to make rent and buy diapers.

Now, I drool over beautiful, too-expensive backpacks and worry I’m too old to pull things off. I stare longingly at hip-punk girls with bleached hair and tattoos. And, I wonder things like: Does the way we look determine who we are? Or, does who we are determine the way we look? At the very least, the way we look determines how we are perceived. And, then I think about choices. The choice to live in a diverse and welcoming city. The choice to have a career that is still quite socially conservative. And, how sometimes you compromise on one thing you love to get a thing you love more.

And, then I think, relax, it’s just clothes.