The Bare Ankle

The shoulder seam sits two inches past the bone, the cuff covers your knuckles, the trouser stops above the ankle so there is always a strip of skin between hem and shoe, and the shoe is a flat white sneaker with a sole thin enough to feel the pavement through. Nothing you own closes tightly. The waist, when there is one, is decided by an elastic.

That year did something genuinely useful: it separated looking expensive from looking fitted, and it made a big soft coat over a thin knit the most reliable outfit in a cold city. You can get dressed in ninety seconds, you can sit on a floor, and your clothes have survived two body changes without a tailor, which is more than the peplum can say.

The cost of it is that volume hides the thing that actually reads as money, which is the shoulder. Yours has been out of sight for a decade. There is also a specific tell you have not clocked: the bare ankle in February is the single most dated gesture on this list, and it has stopped looking like a choice and started looking like a hem that was never altered.