As a child, I spent a lot of time in absurd ensembles.

I’d pretend to be a queen at tea or… As a child, I spent a lot of time in absurd ensembles.

I’d pretend to be a queen at tea or a superstar singing in a sold-out show. I’d dive into sequined dance costumes and puffy dresses to play the parts, and what really made it for me — and many of my friends — were the clothes.

A lot of my peers have lost that imaginative spark. In the place of fanciful and daring getups, they now rely heavily on white T-shirts and black dresses. Not that there’s anything wrong with these items. Like the wheat and corn of our diets, they’re the staples that sustain our closets, and with a few accessories sprinkled on like spices, they can come off as completely different time and time again. But where’s the fire, kids?

My closet has become a sort of home for wayward, costumey pieces. As a testament to that, I’ve made several costumes throughout the years without buying anything new. You might not know it to see me regularly — I don’t wear the pieces in outlandish or inappropriate ways.

For example, I have a stork pin about the size of a hockey puck that stares with a red jewel eye, and I rock it with total sincerity. The man at the consignment shop where I bought it told me he’d waited months for someone to buy it, hoping it would go to someone who’d appreciate it.

I’d like to think that when we wake up in the morning and meander into our closets, we get to decide who we’ll be that day — a rough-and-tumble outdoorsy Southerner or a reserved British schoolgirl. Too often, we let classics and safe styles dictate our wardrobes so we come off more like “college girl” or “guy going to class.”

Maybe we should reconsider how we dress. Perhaps it’s time to get out our vintage galoshes and our wide-brimmed summer hats and decide not just what we’ll look like, but who we’ll be that day.

Recently, I went to see “Bill Cunningham New York,” which profiles Cunningham, the New York Times photographer who’s been in love with and chronicling street fashion for decades. And, as the film shows, he’s not in love with the glamour of celebrity or the hottest designer of the moment. This man, biking around the Big Apple snapping shots of shoes and shifts, loves the elegance of a good cut and the vibrancy of a bright hue, regardless of who says it’s in or out.

And right there is the place where a love of fashion should come from: that same whimsical adoration of gaudy baubles and ruffled petticoats that we had as children, rifling through the dress-up bin our mothers made with outdated clothes.

I hardly remember thinking my navy-and-white floral frock with the shoulder pads and lace collar was heinously ugly because no one told me I was supposed to find it unfashionable. I loved the way the fabric draped to the floor, the royalty of the high collar and the shine of the pearl buttons. There probably were a few pieces in your costume closet that you loved dearly too, even if you now find them horrifically tacky.

It’s not that we should disregard fashion altogether — there’s a nice community that comes with trends and fads. I’m suggesting that we get more crafty with our ensembles — step outside comfort zones and piece together outfits with the same flair we had as children.

Something splendid happens when you let your creative spirit dictate your clothes — it lets you express who you are to the world. Or rather, who you are today. And with that comes a particular kind of confidence. Once you realize how much you really can wear, you’ll be bolder in your fashion choices.

So, I charge you, wake up tomorrow, go into your closet and make a statement. Wear what you love because you love it — even if it’s as faux pas as a fanny pack.