By Julia Block
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
Millennial Pink, we hardly knew thee.
The first time I saw you, my heart swelled. Some guy wore you as a sweater on the street. The next day, you were a whole outfit for another stranger. A week later, I had bought three shirts, two shorts, and a pair of shoes in your color. I loved you. And now, according to Style Caster, Galore Magazine, and The Daily Beast, you are gone. Our affair was brief, but I will always cherish our time together. I will never be able to wear you anymore because a writer named Lizzie Crocker says you’re dead, even though you remain in my closet. I weep for you. I weep for us. We looked so good together. Do you remember how I would sometimes wear you to class or to get coffee because I bought you and liked to wear you out? No longer. I wish just one more time I was able to take you out into the sunlight and wear you again because I like you as a color (not to mention you cost thirty bucks), but we always want what we cannot have.
I return to hazy memories of my freshman year, when I wore Adidas Superstar track pants to Chemistry recitation in the early morning only because Man Repeller told me to and not because they were comfy. That was then– how innocent I was before The Internet sentenced athleisure to its eternal tomb in 2015, eight months after its coming-of-age.
Oh woe! How many dear friends we have lost in recent years. It is impossible to predict how middle-aged columnists from such venerable institutions like Slate or The New Yorker will wield their pens like swords and kill off a trend that most likely does not involve them. The only thing that keeps me going nowadays is the knowledge that perhaps tomorrow another middle-aged columnist will become aware of a new trend the young people are doing and will discuss how it really is a sociological phenomenon that reveals a deeper meaning about “the youth”.
Yes, the life of a “trend” is a volatile, often short one. The rhyme and reason for your rise and decline is swift and unrelenting. And everyone knows: once a trend is declared dead, you can never wear it again. Goodnight, sweet prince.