Something had happened in recent years. Yet another awful phenomenon that seemed undeniably linked to the general sense of joylessness that had overtaken the Earth. And that something was as simple as how much more dully people were dressing…especially during the winter. Gone was the time of dyed faux fur and over-the-top-looking “moon boots.” The era of the solid color, generic puffer jacket with solid color pants or jeans was here to stay. At least as far as Moira Jourdain could tell. And seeing as how she was about to complete a bachelor’s degree in fashion design at FIDM, she had very much made it her (non-paying) business to tell, to forecast. And what she had noticed getting patently worse in the four years since she had started her first class at FIDM was that no one—regardless of what generation they subscribed to—was interested in dressing with anything resembling joie de vivre anymore.

Of course, this had been something that Moira had already noticed even before she started college, with everyone at her podunk Montana high school waking up each day and willfully choosing visual violence with their affronting sartorial choices. Affronting, to be clear, in that their clothes were seemingly selected with the idea in mind that the wearer might later need to go hay-baling. This daily assault on her eyes (and her good taste) was the primary reason why Moira had opted to move to Los Angeles as soon as she graduated. While some had insisted that there were other, “better” fashion capitals for her to flock to, like Paris, London or New York, the deal was sealed for Moira the first time she ever saw Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead. Sue Ellen Crandall was fashion as far as Moira was concerned. And Sue Ellen lived (and, to her seventeen-year-old dismay, worked) in L.A. Thus, L.A. equated, ever since Moira could remember, to vibrant, bold clothing.

When she did finally make it to what she thought would be her fashion Promised Land, she realized she had arrived about thirty-plus years too late. She had missed the boat on “Sue Ellen fashions” by the cruel circumstance of her tardy birth year. To be sure, she had missed just about everything worth a damn because of it. And it wasn’t only L.A. that was suffering from “acute lusterlessness” on the garment front. Even when she ventured to other so-called major metropolises, hallmarks of the “banal dressing” craze were everywhere. Including the once fashion-forward streets of the previously mentioned Paris, London and New York. It was as if, worldwide, a beige pall had been cast, rendering everyone into colorless (literally and metaphorically) people. As if a spell had been recited and there was now no way to undo it.

But Moira was determined to break it by whatever means necessary—even if by starting out with something as simple as herself choosing to dress the “Sue Ellen way.” Though, if her high school experience was anything to go on, wearing clothes that even faintly differentiated her from “the herd” had done little to endear her to others. Indeed, all it had consistently done was further alienate her from people, particularly her own peer group, which she couldn’t identify with in the least as it was, let alone when adding into the mix ostracizing herself all the more by outfitting her body in fashions that screamed, “Anachronism!”

Nonetheless, Moira was committed to the “it starts with one person” idea. Even though said idea hadn’t done much to benefit the salvation of the environment. Still, there’s a reason they say “hope dies last,” and so Moira would continue to hope her personal commitment to not dressing in solid, muted tones would set some kind of example, a new precedent. Inspire those she encountered, even if only subliminally, to dress better, to be better. No matter the personal cost to Moira, who was so often viewed by others as too much of an “anomaly” to engage with. Anomaly, of course, being a euphemism for freakshow. Yet that was the sacrifice she was willing to make in the name and honor of fashion. If not her, then who else? At least in terms of people in her age bracket. Oh sure, there were still some people from previous generations who understood the importance of sartorial bombast, but what would happen when they were gone? Would the whole world descend into grays, beiges and gross “desaturated” greens and blues? It was up to Moira—the seemingly lone person from her generation to care about this—to shoulder the tradition of what it meant to exude aesthetic joy from a “garment perspective.” So even if it meant enduring snickers and side glances at a place as theoretically “open” as fashion design school, well, then, so be it.

Yet, to Moira’s surprise and delight, it appeared as though no one in any of her classes was fazed by the way she dressed. Though they still didn’t appreciate it enough to actually comment on it, to compliment it. But Moira told herself she ought to just take the “win” of, at the very least, not being made fun of for her wardrobe like she was in high school. In fact, she began to openly make fun of others for their basic dressing the more comfortable and confident she felt in her own skin. It got to the point where her authority and taste-making prowess was so feared within the school that other students gradually did begin to take her lead, dressing in bolder, brighter hues and non-solids. And for a while there, Moira’s version of L.A. was like Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead. That is, until she graduated and was thrust back into the “real world.” A place where, unfortunately, the only company she could find a decent-paying entry-level job was at Champion—a nightmare of solids in muted tones, a casual wear purgatory.

She honestly didn’t know how she was going to survive there. And for the first six months or so, it really was unbearable, with people in the office noticeably gawking at her. It got to be what her boss called “too distracting” on all levels, prompting him to actually invoke the dress code from the employee handbook, which featured one damning catch-all line in particular that read, “Employees must adhere to an in-office style that does not distract other employees or divert their focus.” So that was that. Moira was condemned to dress as basic as the rest of them.

The lower she descended to their fashion level, the more joyless she, too, became. And no matter how high she managed to climb the ladder within the company, she could never forget about how happy it used to make her dress in a way that wasn’t, let’s call it, the “Champion way.” She began to see the world now through this lusterless lens, a viewpoint that made her understand that those in control relished seeing people “encouraged” (read: forced) to dress in this “no frills” manner. Because it aligned them with the fundamentally “gulag lifestyle” they were all living. This under the pretense of being “free to do whatever they wanted.” But of course that wasn’t true. Moira could see it now. Though what she wished she couldn’t see was what she looked like in the mirror every day in her present state of “becoming one” with the rest of the fashion blands. The sacrifice she had made to become an “accepted” and “functioning” member of society. In other words, someone employable.