Isabel B. Slone on how she’s meandering her way through quarantine style.
In the seven years I’ve lived in Toronto, I’ve managed to stuff 74 pairs of shoes into my tiny shoebox apartment. Since the COVID-19 pandemic began, I’ve only worn two: comfy grey Allbirds sneakers and a scuffed pair of No. 6 clogs that I kick on and off every time I need to pop downstairs and take out the trash.
As the world settled into varying stages of mandatory quarantine, everything in my carefully curated wardrobe – including my beloved collection of Victorian witch boots – began to feel all wrong. My closetful of monastic, architectural black dresses suddenly felt stifling and constrictive instead of stately and majestic, so they remained untouched while I rotated through three pairs of Lululemon leggings, laundering them only when they had accumulated enough cat hair to be considered repulsive. Despite skimming through a number of well-intentioned articles offering advice on “how to stay sane during quarantine” that suggested “getting dressed up” might add a shred of normalcy, and perhaps dignity, to one’s routine, I simply couldn’t see the point.
For as long as I