By Kasey Dugan...

When I first realized that polka dots were going to be the next “big thing” — I was in the middle of my very own “big thing” — the flu. With nothing else to do but feverishly scroll through my phone, I found myself watching TikTok video after Tiktok video of girls flashing their polka dot blouses, nails, and purses to the camera.

At first, I wondered if this was merely a microtrend: a small pocket of my algorithm blowing things out of fashionable proportion. After all, I had witnessed the brief rise-and-fall of hair tinsel and toe rings only months earlier. Neither had gained much traction beyond a few thousand views. 

But over the next few days, I watched (from bed) as Vogue, Bustle, and Elle released articles confirming my suspicions: polka dots were trending for real. They weren’t just on my For-You-Page — they were all over the runways. 

I instantly felt my cool-girl guard go up. As a longtime lover of all things dotted, I shuddered at the idea of polka dots falling victim to fast fashion overconsumption. To me, polka dots are a symbol of fanciful glee — belonging to ladybugs, children’s rain boots, and a certain yellow bikini. They do not represent the chaotic hedonism of glam, as this Vogue writer says.

Admittedly, polka dots have a puzzling history. They were deemed sinister in medieval times, as spots often suggested illness like leprosy or measles. Their circular shape and uniform print couldn’t be easily replicated in nature, let alone in design, which made them taboo up until the advancement of machinery. By the early 20th century, polka dots became what we know them as today: a symbol of whimsy, romance, and thrill. (Frank Sinatra’s 1941 breakout hit, “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” is a perfect example of their modern interpretation.)

Even knowing their spotty history, I can’t help but worry about what polka dots may become. Our digital culture does not believe in the rule of all things in moderation — including moderation. Instead, we consume and consume until we are sick of it — whether that is listening to a song too many times or buying one-too-many flower hair clips. We ruin things in our habitual greediness to possess them.

And rather than admit we over-consumed, we shift blame onto the trend itself. We call the over-consumed thing “cheugy” or “chopped” or “glazed” or “cooked.” We invent vocabulary to get away from the invention of our gluttony.

Recently, I was walking through Marshalls when I overheard a conversation between two girls in the clothing aisle. They were examining a cheetah print dress, commenting (with laughter) that it was “sooo outdated” before shuffling it back into the rack. I internally winced, remembering how cheetah print was the “it girl” print last summer that everyone was buying. In just a year, we’ve not only turned our backs on it, but we’ve deemed it unfashionable. Worthy of mockery, even.

In the past, it would take years to move past a trend — the expiration date mostly unknown. But now, we anticipate the brief shelf life on these designs before they even hit the shelves — making it difficult for fashionistas and retailers to keep up. 

This is what happened to bows during the 2023 “bow trend.” To be clear, bows have never really gone out of style. In fact, I lived through the 2013 bow trend, which was limited to pleather hair clips from Forever21 and the occasional phone case. 

And trust me, I thought that was excessive — alongside the competing, quirkier trends of 2013.

But the 2023 bow trend revealed the mayhem of overconsumption. These bows were on everything: pajamas, pillow cases, vases, jewelry dishes, bags, cars, water bottles, even human tears (as conceptual art).

Where are these bows now? They’re buried in the clearance racks at Marshalls or poorly-decomposing in a landfill near you. 

If you’re someone who hopped on the bow craze, I’m not blaming you. You might genuinely like bows. Or you might like what they represent — which is why most people over-consume in the first place: they want to buy into the idea of their individualism. 

Bows are to Gen Z what mustaches and owls were to Millennials. They probably seem silly now; maybe even “cringe.” But those icons informed people about our conceived or aspirational identities. They were important to a larger story: the story we tell about ourselves. 

Taking part in any trend taps into our self-perception. We want to wear bows because we want to project our femininity; we want to wear owls to signify our uniqueness. We believe, even partly, that our identities can be purchased. 

But you can’t spell trend without end — at which point,  it exceeds the story we intended to tell, falling into the pits of disapproval. Fear not, this doesn’t mean you have to give up on the trend altogether … as long as you acknowledge you are in on the irony of its ongoing existence.

I can see it now: come November, content creators will be explaining they are “wearing polka dots in an ironic way.” Of course, this will be after we categorize polka dots as “out” on our Fall 2025 Ins and Outs lists. 

For egotistical reasons, we think that acknowledging the irony or the cheuginess (whatever you may call it) makes us more real than those basic girls who have moved on to the next trend. We will see TikTok videos claiming that “polka dots are for the weird girls” — a mythical, exclusive club that we believe separates us from the normal, fake, or boring people of the world. 

What does it even mean to be real? I’ve been asking this question for months, researching the difference between our digital vs. authentic identities. On TikTok, it’s clear as day that there is a fascination with being perceived as “real” in the midst of all the “fakeness” out there.

But does one present themselves as “real?” Well, it’s a bit of a paradox. Your “real self” might wear yoga pants and sweatshirts ninety-percent of the time. This is not the realness the Internet is talking about, (although at one point, it was.) 

In 2025, “realness” is an antonym for boredom and monotony. It’s linked to creativity, shaped by a formative understanding of nostalgia. Some are calling this “realness” their “unhinged sparkle” — that is, letting themselves be “weird.” 

I’m using a lot of air quotes for these terms because they are, indeed, ironic to me. If our mass 2025 digital resolution is to be weirder, then surely there is a fine line between genuine weirdness and performative weirdism. 

Perhaps the question I should have been asking, all along, is what is weird? I guess polka dots are simply a part of the answer. As are buttons and Labubus, apparently. Slap enough of these trinkets onto your outfit and you are authentically weird (and therefore, real) in 2025.

Listen: I don’t mean to reduce people to such a flattening summarization. But I’m merely a byproduct of a suspicious digital culture — the same one that has reduced Addison Rae’s “weirdness” to be all smoke and mirrors. 

If you’re not familiar, Addison Rae is a TikTok-Dancer-Turned-Popstar who recently released her first album, Addison. Today, Rae puts off an ironic and sultry vibe, wearing loud graphic tees and rolling around in powdered sugar.

While many find her new look iconic, some find it off-putting — clinging onto a version of Rae they knew in 2020: a bubbly girl in sweatpants dancing in her room. Others have taken it a step further, believing that Rae is simply imitating her dancer-bestie, Lexee Smith — a girl considered to have genuine style.

It’s all quite confusing, isn’t it? The polka-dots, the unhinged sparkle, the Addison Rae of it all. We are so hypercritical of self-branding and identity. When will we realize that we’re all playing the same game?

The law of transference doesn’t apply to fashion: your whimsical clothes don’t transfer their whimsical powers onto you. They don’t make you real, or weird, or cool. They just make you … you. A person trying to exist in all of this nonsense. 

If you really want to radiate weirdness, or whatever aura you’re after — start by tuning out the influence. Wear what you like, whether it’s on trend or not. Sure, people may judge you and group chats may screenshot you. But you’ll be you — you’ll be real.