I went to a bar last night. Haven’t done that for a while. Everyone there seemed alive, more animated than I remember characteristic of the general public. Seventy-four degrees on a Friday evening aglow with string lights and $10 cocktails brings out the best in ‘em.

So many faces, unmasked. Strangers. In new clothes. I’ve written before about fashion and trends, which have since entered the warm-weather iteration 2.0. Tops are croppier and pants more billowed, all paper-bag waists and oversized tie fronts. Teva sandals rival only Birkenstocks, and the whole thing is eerily similar to Delia’s (dELiA*s !!!) of early ’90s glory. Ain’t that the way, though—the apparel equivalent of pop-sampling songs.

Skinny jeans are out with a capital O. I remember when they swept In on the red heels of Louboutins circa 2011. “I’m never wearing those pants,” I swore. “Sooooo unflattering.”

A decade later I have so many pairs, now neatly folded in the back of my closet waiting for Goodwill. Printed pairs, stretchy pairs, stiff pairs, too-small pairs. Change is good, though it requires effort.

Onward we trod, right? Updating our homes in mid-century modern, scouring internet shelves for the latest plant-based brands. Ahead we charge with the waves of change, perhaps failing to understand why.