Dear American Apparel: Please Don’t Go, Girl...

Monday evening, a spokesperson for American Apparel made an announcement along with the clothing company’s regulatory filing: “We believe that we may not have sufficient liquidity necessary to sustain operations for the next twelve months. These factors, among others, raise substantial doubt that we may be able to continue as a going concern.”

The statement comes in the wake of years of trouble for the brand, including a super-twisted, ongoing legal battle with founder Dov Charney, plus seemingly never-ending financial woes. AA has been on the brink of bankruptcy for an eternity, and this could actually be the nail on the coffin. And by the middle of 2016, American Apparel could be but a distant normcore memory.

Personally, I’m not taking the news very well. My relationship with American Apparel has been filled with ups and downs, sure—but lately, it’s been smooth sailing. And now, suddenly, I might lose it forever. Isn’t that always the way?

Our story begins a decade ago. I was in my late teens when I first discovered American Apparel, lured into Boston’s Newbury Street store by the promise of its tri-blend V-necks, rainbow-colored basics, and a new wardrobe fit for college in the city.

Our courtship reached new heights my freshman year as the Golden Age of Lamé set in. American Apparel was at the forefront of the movement, re-doing practically every style it’d ever released in shiny gold, silver, and purple. I bought an “ironic” gold bikini top to wear to parties; my friends scooped up the across-the-forehead headbands and sparkly leggings. Paired with a multi-way tube dress, elastic-waisted pocket skirt, or one of AA’s tirelessly promoted ‘Le Sac’ dresses, it was pure, 18+ club night perfection. X out our hands, and we were ready to rage.

Like many relationships, my love affair with American Apparel has not been without its rocky moments. The people who worked in my local store—all uniquely beautiful, thin, and tattooed—weren’t really very nice. I felt judged every time I walked in—that is, if they even noticed me at all. (This was at the peak of AA’s unofficial don’t ask, don’t tell-esque policy on shoplifting.) Things reached a new low when I found out my good friend was suddenly doing coke with them, and I considered cutting my ties entirely.

But, like a geek looking longingly at an exclusive lunch table filled with alt-mean girls, the employees’ apparent disdain for their customers only made me idolize them and the brand even more. A new location opened further up on the street, and once again, I was filled with amore. I decorated my walls with AA’s sleazy promo posters and stocked up on its merch: sweatshirt dresses, acid wash tees, thigh-high socks, scoop-back bodysuits, retro running shorts, baseball tees, bodycon dresses. I was Alf and American Apparel was cats. I couldn’t get enough.

The author at the height of her lamé addiction, circa 2007.

After the Lamé Period—which wrapped up around the same time that everyone abandoned their T-Mobile Sidekicks and MySpace profiles—came a lull in my American Apparel love affair. I’d stop in to poke around the merch every once in a while, but the only thing I remember actually purchasing was a Gloria bodysuit for my Lady Gaga Halloween costume in 2009. ~Memories.~

AA and I were on a break—but I knew it wouldn’t be for long. And just like in a romantic comedy, we were brought back together by a most unusual circumstance.

That would be my psychotic first New York City roommate, my experience with whom you may read about here. She worked at American Apparel (some things don’t change) and was one of the best dressers I’d ever seen. She was normcore before normcore was normcore, and I was desperate to absorb some of her cool. Before she decided she hated my guts, she actually let me borrow a lot of her stuff. All at once, my faith in AA was restored. Time had been good to my long-lost love, and I was ready to reclaim what was mine.

Before I knew it, my wardrobe was overflowing with AA once more—but instead of shiny disco-wear, I was fiending for high-waisted pleated pants, tennis skirts, and chambray shirts. As the seasons changed, I’d stock up on various versions of my favorite styles, swapping soft knits for linen and sweater socks for cuffed denim shorts. I bought tiny gold earrings in the shape of seahorses. SEAHORSES!

When mom jeans arrived in early 2014, I went on a heated hunt for the perfect pair—only to find myself right back at my heavenly American Apparel. And when my crop tops needed an update? AA had my back. In the past several months alone, I’ve purchased hair bows, scrunchies, several pairs of jeans, bodysuits, a plunging one-piece swimsuit, a tie-front button-down, mock-neck crop tops, a turtleneck bodycon, and a stripy box tee that makes me feel like a combination of Bridget Bardot and a Little Rascal.

But hard as I’ve tried, it seems my dedication and near-constant shopping habit hasn’t been enough to keep the entire American Apparel corporation afloat. Which leaves me wondering… what will I do when it’s gone… for good? When my precious Calvary Twill High-Waist Pleated Pants bust a seam, how will I replace them? Where will I get my Easy Jeans when finding them is no longer easy? Or that denim-strap watch I’ve been meaning to get, and that one royal blue fisherman sweater I’ve had my eye on?

I guess what I’m trying to say is… do what you need to do, American Apparel. Free the nipple, incarcerate the nipple, downsize, invest, research, go bankrupt… I don’t care. Though it truly is you, this time, and NOT me… I’m not ready to let you go. So please, please don’t break my heart and disappear on me. My closet and I depend on it.

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