A couple of things to set the scene. 

It was a hot and humid Cleveland day. I had yet to venture over to Tremont in the year I’d been in Cleveland, so I was looking forward to it but I’ll admit that I was very curious about what I was getting into meeting Sarah at her home, which she technically never gave me the address to, rather a landmark instead. 

Ringing the doorbell is a whole thing with Bruce, so I texted Sarah as soon as I parked out in front of the landmark. Bounding down the driveway, Sarah appeared; blond curly hair sprouting from her head, her pink flower hair clip putting in some work, and wearing a white lace curtain refashioned as a shirt, handmade black linen pants, and a fanny pack made from a tablecloth.  Bruce is wearing a harness that barely holds him back as he starts running towards me. Bruce is a dog, by the way. 

We walked down to the corner store where these two are regulars. I think it’s more so for Bruce and the relationship he’s built with the guy who works there, whom I did not meet. We snapped a couple of shots in the store, let Bruce get his treat, and headed back to Sarah’s apartment. This allowed for a much calmer dog so Sarah could show me around her cozy Cleveland apartment.

Living in Tremont was a childhood goal of hers; it was the cool spot of Cleveland to her growing up, so actually living in the neighborhood feels like a personal achievement she can check off the list. She also mentioned liking her apartment enough to not want to move because her landlord is chill enough that he doesn’t raise the rent every year; she’s grandfathered into a price that makes sense to her. Plus, spending less on rent means spending more on John Fluevogs. If you have a brief thought of Sarah being Cleveland’s Carrie Bradshaw…kindly put it in the garbage. The only two things that would line up are the curly blonde hair and shoe addiction. Sarah would undoubtedly rip Big a new one, spend probably the same amount of money on shoes, and prefers the coziness of home to the smell of a bar; especially since she’s been enjoying an alcohol-free life.  

Walking into her humble space, I was greeted with a tiny kitchen and the bathroom to my left. What would probably be the dining area to some was a creative hub for her. Her sewing machine, which she had just upgraded, sat on a modest table. A shallow dish full of push pins was to the left, and a very complicated-looking threading machine sat on another wobbly table to the right. It was a simple scene, yet it brought a harsh reality to the forefront of my mind: how disconnected we are now in this world of fast fashion. It doesn’t just stop at fashion; it’s food, service, work, streaming platforms, and social media. We expect things to happen instantly; I should be able to buy it the second I decide I want it. The essence of patience is losing its grip on society; we don’t have it.

So, as I wandered around looking at what a single, 35-year-old woman who works at a tech company makes her own clothes, has a black and white dog that she swears she did not buy based on aesthetics, and is fiercely independent, curates in her home. The answer is a lot of weird stuff. JD Vance’s nightmare curated in a cute, pink crochet bubble. 

We chatted about how the minimalism trend ended up brainwashing me into getting rid of some actually pretty cool items and how she’s always been a maximalist. Given the prosthetic leg leaning up against her bookshelf, which she declared as “a steal at only $175,” my scale would be free, but you honestly never really know someone's tax bracket.

*edit: “The leg would have been $150 but the woman gave it to her for $75 and a crochet basket. She invited Sarah to her art studio for the trade. 

All the curtains are a crocheted shade of pink and red, matching her bright pink velvet sofa. We chatted for a bit about her neighbors, the rent in the area, and the walkability of the neighborhood. Once she was in her second outfit - this one a shirt purchased from Instagram, pants made from mismatched thrift store fabric -  she started pulling out so many sweaters. Most of them were made from scrap yarn and almost every single one had some kind of pattern. She pulled out her absolute pride and joy, the sweater that made her realize her potential, the lime green one with the Rolling Stones-like lips. She proceeded to joke that once she finished this one, it was going to be hard to be humble about what she could do. 

 “Don’t let me forget I’m not wearing underwear,” Sarah told me as she packed up her bag for the next few rounds of outfits once we headed out the door.

She offered to drive us to our next location, which was the Savers thrift store, and I was grateful because I have driving anxiety in addition to not knowing the area as well. You move faster when you’re with someone who knows the land. 

Sarah has frequented this location so often, she truly could pass off as an employee until she inevitably would start causing some patriarchy uprising within the establishment in under 10 minutes. And she did act like an employee when we first arrived. “The trick is to donate a bag, so you get a 20% off coupon, which you then use in the store for your fabric,” she told me as we started walking toward the donation drop-off end of the store. There was a line of cars waiting to drop items off and no employee outside to assist. There was a sign that said something along the lines of “please wait for an attendant,” but no one really gets paid enough for those positions to care. Sarah, knowing the drill, simply rang the little doorbell for assistance, which this elderly woman missed. This elderly woman, in comparison to Sarah, was timid. Too afraid to break the rules at the Savers thrift store and a little shocked when Sarah took charge and helped this woman place her bags in the bin and handed her a coupon, despite not being an official employee. The motto for the remainder of the afternoon was “don’t ask for permission, ask for forgiveness.”

Sarah immediately found a creepy porcelain voodoo doll thing and then beelined it toward the back corner of the store. While walking through the fabric aisles of the thrift store, I started thinking about how much of a thrift store I actually truly ignore. I grew up with a mother who basically thought everything was junk. Any quirky pieces she had or kept were the only things that weren’t junk, if that makes sense. We also weren’t a thrift store family. I think we’d probably be better off in some areas if we did shop at a thrift store… but this was the ‘90s. So, it still really mattered if your family HAD to shop at the thrift. It wasn’t a cool or hip choice to make, it was just the only option. Which was shameful—it shouldn’t be—but that was kind of the vibe in my hometown. I do think that’s changed, and it’s certainly the climate now for it. So anyways, the art of thrifting is new to me. And I miss a lot because I don’t want to spend the time thinking about the project I’ll bring home. So I followed Sarah down the aisles which I otherwise ignore because I always go in with a one-track mind: clothes. I don’t think about altering them or creating new pieces; I was just going in, hoping to find something that looks good and fits me that might surprise me. But I brought up this idea of fast fashion again and what her thoughts on it were.

“If you think about the process, some of the knits you see in Target, for example, can’t be done on a factory machine. So someone is still hand-making them, but you’re only buying it for $15. So how much do you think that worker got paid?”

And it’s true. How many of us look at the way something is knit and wonder who or what made it? Who decides the universal sizes? Who decides it’s worth the risk to make the entire women’s section of a Target look like Little House on the Prairie, LGBTQ edition? Cleveland alone has 10 Target locations. It’s crazy to think that each store is going to have a variety of sizes and colors for the things available; the amount of inventory that has to be made each season.

I tried to deep dive on the internet to start finding data so I could start asking my husband to do the math to estimate the number of clothing items Target produces each season per store. It’s challenging, turns out, without direct access to their internal inventory data. To get a precise figure, you would need access to Target's production and inventory data, which is proprietary information, lol. 

Let’s make some general assumptions though. If Target operates nearly 1,900 stores across the United States, given their extensive reach and the variety of clothing they offer, it's likely they produce and stock a substantial inventory each season. Target would be expected to offer a broad range of clothing categories, including men’s, women’s, and children’s apparel, as well as seasonal items like swimwear, coats, and back-to-school clothing. Each category typically features multiple styles and sizes. 

You also have to take into account retailers like Target usually plan for high inventory turnover, especially for seasonal items. This means they produce enough stock to meet demand but also aim to minimize leftover inventory at the end of the season. 

For a rough estimate, if Target were to produce 100 shirts per store for a fall season and they have around 1,900 stores, that would amount to 190,000 shirts in total for just one type of clothing item. This figure would multiply significantly when considering other types of apparel and multiple sizes and styles.

That my friends, is a shit ton.