Too Pretty For a Job, or Too Pretty For That Shirt?

by Kat Boskovic

photographed by emilie dumas

“Too pretty for a job.” “I put the hot in psychotic.” “My iron level is lower than my standards.” These baby tees, adorned with ironic, often sarcastic phrases, have resurfaced with the Y2K revival, casting an odd shadow of humor over fashion. On one hand, they serve as subversive fashion statements supposedly intended to empower. On the other, they’re a stark reflection of how fast fashion uses self-deprecation, particularly aimed at women, to commodify identity. Are these tees truly empowering, or do they slander and belittle the very people they mean to humorously celebrate? 

The appeal of these ironic baby tees taps into a larger trend of “everyday excess,” where fashion brands pull inspiration from mundane, sometimes absurd places—like supermarket aesthetics. As The Guardian notes, fashion’s fixation with ordinary consumer experiences reflects a growing appetite for accessible, playful products that are ironically luxurious or tongue-in-cheek. Baby tees, emblazoned with phrases that teeter on the brink between self-deprecating and empowering, offer a similar kind of excess, allowing consumers to embody a rebellious persona with minimal effort and investment, all while feeding into the thrill of fast consumption. But this humor-infused accessibility often has a darker side, blurring the line between personal expression and self-objectification; after all, what demographic are these baby tees advertised to? Women. 

Last spring, courtesy of a close friend, I became the proud owner of my very own baby tee. I had jokingly posted a screenshot of a shirt I had seen on TikTok onto my private Snapchat story, for the phrase it sported frighteningly represented my personality exactly, and as a joke, my friend gifted it to me as my high school graduation present. While I did find it hysterical upon reception, I now look at the neglected item hanging in my closet and wonder, “Where could I possibly wear this?” Much to my dismay, I am not a walking Pinterest board who can just pull a snarky baby tee on, pair it with jorts and sambas, and parade around town; unfortunately, I have shame, and a shirt that simultaneously defies societal expectations and also draws objectifying attention is not something I can muster up the courage to flaunt in public. I may find the words empowering in theory, but in practice, shame and the difficulty of shrugging off judgment keep me from donning it anywhere but in my room. 

Unshockingly, this is not a rare sentiment among other women who own these shirts. In an interview with Vogue, Paulina Rosil, a fashion student who runs a baby tee shop on Depop, states that many of her celebrity and influencer clients have dismayingly informed her, “I just can’t post it because of the audience.” Charli D’Amelio, for example, was willing to post a photo on social media of an “I ♥️ me” shirt from the boutique, yet the “Attention Whore” tee she had also purchased from the shop never saw the Internet. As a TikTok influencer with a large audience of easily impressionable young girls, her choice may have been the right one; it’s arguable that an “I ♥️ me” tee promotes self-love and confidence, a department in which much of her tweenage/adolescent audience may be lacking in, but an “Attention Whore” tee has no other justification except self-deprecation. To post such a shirt online is public humiliation, for degrading yourself because of a fleeting fast-fashion trend can’t be described as anything else. 

That’s precisely the issue with the rise of baby tees: We purchase them without thinking, either for ourselves or as gag gifts, because they emblaze a sarcastic slogan, but they’re only worn once or twice before they wind their way to a dump. With designs meant to make bold statements, yet crafted cheaply for short-term wear, they tap into the very paradox of fast fashion we should aim to dismantle. According to the World Economic Forum, approximately 85% of all textiles find themselves in landfills annually, and the constant churning and regurgitating of trends only contributes to this mass consumption. As of 2014, we buy 60% more clothes than we did at the turn of the 21st century, no doubt due to the rise of social media: As soon as a trend comes into style, it is immediately replaced by something else, for these trends are immediately accessible and don’t rely on a trickle down from high luxury runways. Baby tees are no exception to this; the revival of Y2K fashion has prioritized mass production over sustainable material, and my own baby tee may very well end up in a landfill once I accept I can never fathom wearing it in public. Many thrift stores don’t accept such vulgar clothing, and recycling options for these garments remain limited—either reused in lesser-quality garments, or tossed out entirely. Are jarring, borderline degrading gag gifts a justifiable reason to destroy our planet? 

Ultimately, the Y2K baby tee trend is both a fashion statement and a social commentary—a symbol of fast fashion’s ephemeral allure as well as its contribution to a culture of self-satire, often belittling to its wearers. By constantly cycling through trends that capitalize on irony and self-deprecation, the fashion industry markets these tees as empowering tools for self-expression while perpetuating a culture that encourages disposability. Whether they provide true empowerment or simply make us the butt of our own joke, baby tees are here to remind us that fashion, like humor, can come at a high cost to both our identity and the environment. These tees may be cute and may be flooding our social media feeds, but shouldn’t we stop and ponder before we buy?