If you’d told me when I was in middle school that the trend of girls plastering their AIM profiles with the initials of boys they were “dating” (a.k.a. awkwardly standing close to at school dances) would be revived by two of the biggest pop stars in the world, I would have thrown up.
Taylor Swift wearing Travis Kelce’s first initial—or her own, I guess, but come on, it’s a Travis reference, right?—as a pendant at the Grammys, then the Super Bowl? Lana Del Rey showing off her new last name, Dufrene, via custom-embroidered denim? The disillusioned little Daria Morgendorffer-in-training that I was found nothing more disgusting than bragging about being coupled up.
Some time later, I still reserve a healthy amount of skepticism for brazen displays of heterosexuality. (Congrats, babes! Nobody’s coming for your marriage rights! Enjoy that gender reveal!) But ever since I found myself on the other side of 30 with a live-in partner, I’ve had to balance a genuine desire to remain an independent individual with the powerful impulse to absolutely deck myself out in what one might call “girlfriendcore.”
I’m not alone in this; one trans couple I’m friends with has each other’s names on nameplate necklaces. While that would definitely gross me out if straight people did it, members of the LGBTQ+ community are a different story.
To wit, one of the best purses in my collection of mostly vintage bags and clutches is a zippered cross-body pouch that an artist at the Orange County Fair spray-painted to read “RAX’S GIRL”—Rax being said live-in partner—below a setting sun surrounded by palm trees. Is it elegant, or feminist, or in particularly good taste? Maybe not. But I still love wearing it, in part because the closeted tween version of me could never have dreamed that I’d one day shed enough cynicism to wear such a thing in public—or, for that matter, end up in a loving, extremely queer relationship of the kind where we actually attend county fairs together. We even kissed on the Ferris wheel! (I know, barf.)
Of course, I’m not saying that queer and trans people are the only ones allowed to adorn themselves with their partners’ names; I love Lana’s embroidered bayou-queen jeans beyond all reason. But if I have to watch Elon Musk and his army of incels lay waste to my civil rights, then I am at least going to try to grant myself little gay treats whenever I can—and one of them just happens to be a clip-on belly ring bearing the letter “R” that I’ve been coveting for months. Get in, losers, we’re reclaiming mean-hot-Y2K girl fashion for everyone who felt too gay, too fat, or too otherwise wrong to wear it the first time around!
