Netflix’s ‘Worn Stories’ Validated My Last Year of Getting Dressed Up in Quarantine

Netflix’s Worn Stories is a docuseries about the connection people have with clothes—and not in a superficial, #sponcon, influencer way. The show is a crystal clear example of how important clothes are beyond fashion or style, although those are important too. Worn Stories is more concerned about what its subjects were wearing as they lived through the events that shaped them into the people they are today. And today? We’re right at the year-and-some-change mark of our collective quarantine coronavirus hell, an era that fully pulled the norms around how and why we dress inside out. But I’ll tell ya, I can’t think of a better time for Worn Stories to hit Netflix—especially if you’ve spent the last year getting completely dressed up every day just for Zoom calls and Instagram posts. Yeah, I’m that guy, and Worn Stories spoke to me deeply.

Being the guy who cares a lot about clothes is an identity that I figure a lot of men like myself have to grow into. That’s because men are generally not socialized to care about their appearance, and clothes are a pretty big part of appearing. And it’s an even tighter mental hoop to jump through if your personal style can be described as, uh, Gay Bob Newhart? Men aren’t expected to care about clothes unless those clothes are sneakers or athletic wear or pop culture t-shirts or their drag persona. This has been my experience—my ~journey~ if you will—as I’ve matured, gotten more comfortable in my body and sexuality, and as I’ve finally found an era of masculinity that speaks to me (re: anything classic and/or gay from before 1990).

Just as I really started living in my skin (or a made-to-measure, hunter green, double-breasted suit that is the most expensive thing I own and I consider that money well spent) quarantine hit. It hit me hard. I couldn’t dress up for work anymore and be the only person in an entire office building wearing a casual ascot and denim jacket for no special occasion. It felt like a language was taken from me just as I became fluent; I communicate a lot through my outfits, and now people would only be getting the waist-up story, if they got the story at all. Everyone else celebrated this pajamas and sweatpants life (if I don’t put on at least a pair of blue jeans every day, I feel a bizarre sense of existential pointlessness). I felt more or less alone as people expressed surprise in the comments of my increasingly more sporadic Instagram outfit-of-the-day pics. How was I putting on a necktie in the morning?! I’m wearing a watch? At home?? Are those shoes??? I get why people were surprised—because I was surprised too. I knew I cared about clothes, but I didn’t know how much until a global crisis took away pretty much every single reason for me to care.

Worn Stories showed me why I care.

As each of the half dozen stories told in every episode illustrates, clothes are a way for us to not only communicate who we are, but they’re a way for us to remember who we were. Each episode unravels our connection to clothes in different ways. Some clothes are tied to wacky hijinks, like one long night spent tracking down a purloined one-of-a-kind coat in New York City. Some come from an emotional place, like the boots a man wore while he survived a plane crash.

There’s a codpiece from Tina Turner that provides a spiritual and physical lift, airbrushed tees that immortalize lost loved ones, a jockstrap that makes you stand up straighter (and be a lot gayer), a pair of spandex shorts that’s a reminder that you survived a devastating pandemic. This series features Charo being Charo about how Charo became Charo! But all of these truly disparate tales have one thing in common: they all prove that clothes aren’t frivolous, and caring about them and talking about them matter. What I’ve been doing for the last year, it’s part of my personal experience—how I’ve coped with a different devastating pandemic.

Worn Stories got me thinking about how I’ll view all of the clothes I bought and wore during quarantine and the stories I’ll associate with them. There’s the cobbled together Gomez Addams costume I wore for a ridiculous Instagram Live I did that cheered up my friends in Week 2 of lockdown; the as-gay-as-I-can-be look I wore for a professional peak; the separates I put together for a friend’s Parisian wedding (that I watched via Zoom); the roster of swimsuits I sported while practicing self-care and treating my building’s roof as a Palm Springs vacay; the Jonathan Hart Halloween costume that LOL Robert Wagner actually saw; the Cheers hat and Late Show letterman jacket I voted in; the turtleneck and gold jewelry I busted out as the presidential race was called; and the victory tuxedo I bought on eBay that day so I could prepare for inauguration. This was a dark stretch of time but, just looking back at my quarantine closet, the good times from the past year start to shine brighter when I think about my worn stories.

I fully admit that the last paragraph could be seen as incredibly vain and indulgent—but after watching Worn Stories, I’m gonna say that’s not true. I’m gonna do what Worn Stories taught me and be proud of the stories around the clothes I wear; lord knows I’m already proud of the clothes themselves. That’s my worn story.

Stream Worn Stories on Netflix