Attending one of the US’s glamorous clothing swap events is a fashion adventure that promises uber-style, sustainability, savings, and social connection. But be warned: sharp elbows and abrasions are to be expected. Pamela Prohoroff writes
Clothing swaps have become the height of sophistication across America’s more enlightened zip codes, where connoisseurs gather to exchange their out-of-favour clothing while congratulating themselves on their ecological virtue.
The whole concept of these gatherings is utterly ingenious: Access to nearly pristine, fashionable garments and coveted labels without depleting one’s bank account. Extending the lifestyle of otherwise doomed textiles while reducing waste and carbon footprints in a fashion industry that treats planetary resources with total disregard.
It’s precisely why I, a woman whose fashion sense peaked somewhere around 2002 and has been in steady decline ever since, decided to brave the terrain of America’s clothing swap subculture.
(I had already survived genteel Book Swaps and Game Swaps, where the worst injuries I had endured were paper cuts and watching someone else snag the last copy of ‘The Women’.)
The need for a fashion do-over
In the past year, I had miraculously managed to shed sixty pounds through a regimen of self-denial that, I should add, did not include weight loss medication – only because I cannot afford it.
But, naturally, my body’s recent metamorphosis from a US size 12/14 into a 4/6 had necessitated a complete wardrobe overhaul.
I had already purged old clothes to charity stores with the fervour of someone whose pants were literally falling off. This action makes you feel simultaneously thrifty and smugly eco-conscious, but sadly prevents you from retrieving that beloved – but now ridiculously oversized – cashmere sweater at the last minute.
I had also dispatched bag after bag of old clothes to online platforms. The type that peddle gently used and secondhand Gap, Gucci, and Lululemon at discounts.
In anticipation of a newer, slimmer clothing collection, I consulted the great AI oracle, ChatGPT, to understand my ideal colour palette. To my horror, I was instructed, with algorithmic certainty, that I should avoid black. The shade that had comprised the majority of my existing wardrobe was now verboten.
According to this digital colour analysis, my fair complexion and light blue eyes categorised me as a ‘Cool’ or ‘Soft Summer’ disposition, condemning me to a lifetime of taupe, dove grey, powder blue, soft navy, dusty rose, lavender, and sage. Or, as I would prefer to describe them, all the colours that look like they’ve been left out in the sun too long.
Only a smidgen of my closet aligned with these ethereal, washed-out hues, while the remainder was my beloved, sophisticated black. But alas, the digital deity had spoken, and I, in my obsessive quest for self-improvement, had foolishly decided to comply.
Now, all I needed was a place affordable enough to adopt my new style.
Out with the old, in with the…old
Marking my inaugural, somewhat reluctant, foray into clothing swaps, I dutifully arrived at a local event bearing quality garments that had grown weary of my company.
I sacrificed my beloved but now voluminous Athleta, Banana Republic, and Ann Taylor pieces upon the altar of fashion recycling, while eagerly awaiting the promised bounty of replacement threads.
Upon arrival, I was handed what appeared to be the Geneva Convention of secondhand shopping with edicts such as Be Kind & Respectful, No Hoarding, and Take Only What You Love. My initial naive concern was merely finding items in my preferred size, colour palette, and designer label—a trifecta of specificity that, in retrospect, seems as likely as finding a downtown parking spot on a Saturday night.
Each new arrival of clothing onto the swapping table would precipitate a feeding frenzy reminiscent of those infamous bridal sample sales. Otherwise reasonable women transformed into satin-crazed combatants willing to trample over their own best friends for a discounted Vera Wang.
The tables also groaned under the weight of trendy, fast-fashion offerings from Shein, H&M and Zara, though acquiring these felt vaguely like admitting you enjoy reality television and know everything about the Kardashians: shameful pleasures best indulged in private.
As more fresh clothing appeared, I tried to resist the rabid flinging behaviour erupting around me. This commitment to civilised conduct proved a catastrophic tactical error.
Where vintage style meets the Hunger Games: bulging bags assaulted me at every turn.
The pièce de résistance of my humiliation occurred when a new rack of hanging clothing materialised directly in front of me. A swap volunteer acknowledged this fortuitous positioning with an encouraging, “You can have first swipe at these!”
Before my hand could reach the nearest hanger, a diminutive but angry woman materialised from the crowd on my left, bellowing “NOPE!” with the authority of someone with serious road rage. She then proceeded to bodycheck me with the force of a rugby player. As I was propelled forward by the impact – my ribs registering their strong objection to this treatment – she seized the garments with octopus-like efficiency.
After picking up my shattered indignation and checking for broken bones, I approached the organiser to report this flagrant rule violation. They responded with the calm of someone who’d witnessed far worse, suggesting I alert them “if it happens again” – as if I were describing a parking ticket rather than assault over secondhand couture.
With touching optimism, they added that, “These clothes swaps only work if everybody cooperates.” This statement was so divorced from the surrounding chaos that I briefly wondered if we were at the same event.
Meanwhile, my attacker had melted into the crowd with her spoils, hunting her next victim. Shaken and sporting what would bloom into a spectacular bruise, I texted my husband for extraction from the battlefield.
I did eventually limp away with an impressive haul of fashion contraband: Madewell, Anthropologie, Levi’s, and Free People.
These brands whisper, “I have disposable income but choose vintage because I’m environmentally aware.”
Upon reaching the exit, the fashion gods delivered their final insult: two exquisitely stylish young women arrived, their bags overflowing with the kind of garments fashion editors rhapsodise about in colours that were not black. Of course! The universe’s timing, as always, was impeccable.
I awoke the next morning looking like I’d survived Fight Club, sporting bruises from table corners and the surprisingly sharp elbows of seasoned professionals.
Would I participate in these Fashion Hunger Games again? Absolutely! I’ve reached that perfect storm of conscious consumerism and financial desperation where I’ve convinced myself that physical peril is just ‘character development’. Nothing – not even the very real threat of trampling – will keep me from claiming a pristine Eileen Fisher blazer for the low, low price of free.
The bruises fade, but vintage Anthropologie is forever.
