What I Talk About When I Talk About What I Wear
It's not about getting dressed, except that it sort of is
I love getting dressed. Even during the depths of the pandemic lockdown, when the world was living in sweatpants and t-shirts and no one much saw the point of changing out of pajamas, I loved getting dressed. A hundred times out of a hundred, I’d choose planning outfits over planning meals. Playing in my closet is my idea of a relaxing Sunday afternoon.
Does this mean I always look like a fashion plate? God, no. Right now, I’m sitting barefoot on my roof, wearing my favorite wide-legged blue jeans (with an unfortunate hole forming in the crotch) and a seasonally-inappropriate velvet t-shirt. My hair is still wet from the shower and probably will be for most of the day. I haven’t spilled coffee on myself yet, but don’t worry, I’m sure it’s coming
.The reason I love getting dressed isn’t because I want to be seen. It’s because I want to see myself.
For most of my life, it hasn’t felt safe to be who I am. I’ve walked a tightrope of perfectionism that demands I always make the best choices, say the right things, follow the correct path, and meet all the expectations. It’s easy to lose yourself when you’re spending all your energy trying to stay on such a narrow line. Balancing becomes all that matters.
But getting dressed is different. When it comes to clothes, to fabrics, to textures, and to patterns, I know what I like. I always know what I like, even when it changes over time or the styles contradict one another. I like the feel of velvet between my fingers. I like the look of combat boots with a floaty dress. I like the sporty simplicity of black Chuck Taylors. I like smooth silk and rough linen and intricate embroidery and ripped blue jeans. I like cowboy boots and ballet flats and plaid flannels and pointelle sweaters.
Walt Whitman certainly wasn’t talking about my relationship with clothes when he wrote, “Do I contradict myself? / Very well then, I contradict myself. / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)” But he could have been.
Sometimes, it feels like a short leap from “I know what I like” to “I know who I am.” Other times, it seems like a giant chasm. But either way, it’s a starting point.
I know, in my head, that the clothes I wear don’t define who I am. I know that style and identity are intertwined, not inseparable. I know that many (probably most) of the people I care about couldn’t care less what they pull out of the closet each morning. But me? It’s a moment of surety each morning, a moment of comfort, a moment of self-care, a moment of knowing. And there’s a part of me that believes that moment, unimportant as it might seem, will inevitably lead to more.
I like seeing myself. I like embracing my contradictions. I love getting dressed.