Back in the times of Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth and Gwendolen Fairfax, it bordered on a crime for the wealthy and frivolous to not have enough clothing at their disposal. But as corsets loosened and shirt tails shrunk, so did the size of suitcases. Now, trunks have become coffee tables—how I long for you, vintage Louis Vuitton—and packing has become a burden. Suddenly oppressed with the task of moving its own belongings, the modern leisure class has learned to edit down traveling wardrobes to avoid making those extra trips to the fifth floor. For 21st century 20-somethings, increasingly nomadic lifestyles induce wardrobes to shrink even more. As items are packed and re-packed, thrown out and given away, the pared-down wardrobe becomes the entire collection—an extension of a young person's identity, evolving with them as they move and grow.

My friend’s brother recently left for his freshman year of college. Islands of clothing sat next to empty boxes and duffle bags—a Pangaea of sorts fluctuating in his childhood bedroom. He asked us (with Lil Wayne in the background) what he should pack: what clothes, what books, a coffee maker, too? “Pack whatever clothes you like,” I said. “And the books? Bring your favorites.” But questions started seeping into my mind. What if there’s a formal? What if he needs a costume? Should he bring hiking gear? How about a suit? When he yelled that he was running out of boxes, I suggested that he pack in laundry baskets. Oh, how Lily Bart would have shuddered!

When we don’t travel with all our possessions, packing becomes a therapy session of sorts, a time of self-analysis when we ask, “Do I really need to bring my Spongebob T-shirt?” (The answer: Yes.) At the same time, transience gives one opportunities for renewal and reinvention: leaving certain clothes behind suggests that the ones kept close are more aligned with your image of yourself. What you wear doesn’t define your identity, but it does serve as a projection of it.

Leaving for college is the milestone that, for most higher education-bound young adults, provides the first opportunity for renewal. But as this quasi-independence gradually turns into that first post-graduate year, the impermanence of campus-living and vacation periods fades into a lifestyle similarly without serious attachments. Career paths force young adults to constantly reevaluate their finances, location, and aspirations, and when jobs require four days of travel a week, carry-on suitcases serve as the habitats of possessions. Our lives are perpetually nomadic ones, and what we choose to bring along the way serves as a reminder of past and future, eventually coming to constitute a place we call home.

Clothing is as transient as our lifestyles, correlating with ever-changing circumstances and goals. Our travels are less predictable than those of our turn-of-the-century predecessors; our attire evolves as such when we transition from Teach for America to a publishing internship. At the same time, certain items hold their importance—my sequin-seduced, pink prom dress is packed away for another time when I need to have some frivolous fun. It's metamorphosis with memory, adaptation with homage to the past.

Trunks aren't necessary for our kinds of gallant journeys today. We can improvise as we go along. And as I do, I'll shed some headbands and add some blouses. But for now, my wardrobe is more than an abridged version of my style; it is a puzzle of my hopes and fears, seen in houndstooth, neoprene, cotton, and gray flannel.

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Dylan Hayley Leavitt `11 graduated this spring as a Film & Media Studies major and AMES minor. You can read more about her nack for nostalgia on her blog, Causeway Road, at http://www.causewayroad.blogspot.com.