An Aspiring Vintage Girl Tries to Live Life at Penn

Young, elegant ladies lace their way through the crowded streets of New York City in bright green wiggle dresses, rockabilly skirts, and kitten heels. Their rouged cheeks and bright red lips leap off of their flawless skin. And victory curls and S–waves defy gravity in architectural swoops upon their heads. These are vintage girls. A small subculture that dwells in large cities, where chic men and women congregate in modern day speakeasies and jazz clubs. If you were to look at a black and white picture of them, you would never know it was 2018 and not 1952. Until a few months ago, I did not know that there were people who lived life like this, and so fearlessly. I find that I, too, am a vintage girl, but in the early stages. And as effortlessly and unabashedly as those women show their lifestyle, so is almost never the case...at least in my experience.

I have always felt as if I had an old soul. I rarely listen to pop music, instead preferring the drama and luxury of musicals or jazz. When everyone is talking about the newest indie movie, I’m still stuck on Rear Window and How to Steal a Million. Who is Gigi Hadid, I ask. Who is Grace Kelly, they ask. My affinity for the classic often places me on a different page than my peers, and it’s always a page that’s about 60 years old. At the rate my tastes are moving, I will not ever catch up to most things my friends are talking about. Yes, this makes me unique for my age, but it’s also a phenomenon that can make you feel rather lonely. As I go on about leading man Clark Gable, it’s only the old women who give a damn, and it’s probably only them who will get that joke either. But I continue to go against the grain despite my growing alienation.

As I put on my a–line, tea length dresses or tulle skirts and blouses, I sometimes wonder if everyone’s critiques of my lifestyle are right. Am I overdressed in a negative way? Am I actually pretentious? Do I dress like this because I really do think I’m better than everyone else? I am fully aware that dressing like I’m going to high tea instead of a dining hall can attract some attention, but it’s not because I want to be the center of attention. My wardrobe is filled with lace frills and bedazzled peep–toes, a sea of box pleats and neck scarves, pixie pants and boatneck shirts; there’s not a plain t–shirt or sweatpant in sight.I really do just enjoy looking nice, for myself, for all the women who have inspired me, for everyone I pass by, to show that I care about the image I present to the world. As I grapple with negative opinions of people who have never even spoken to me, I question everything about the qualities that seem so much a part of me. Am I superficial? This is something that even I struggle with. Even if this style is a part of me, maybe it is more of a persona. A life modeled on pictures of old Hollywood actresses and staged black and white photos is to some degree staged. But I’m just trying to recreate the art that captivates me so completely. The lines between me and Grace Kelly or me and Audrey Hepburn are at times blurred, even in my own mind, as I strive to not only be like my icons but to actually be them.

But when I listen to jazz and drift off to times of over half a century ago, I feel complete, even if I don’t quite fit in with the typical Penn scene. Simply knowing that there is a place for me that fits me perfectly is reassuring, but I haven’t quite reached the level of a thrifting, New York City vintage girl. But still I strive, reading old books, buying dresses from LindyBop, and trying to live like a staged photograph.