Our Bodies, Our Clothes

Clothes are so interesting. An interest in clothes is often perceived as shallow, and those who enjoy them too much are seen as vapid, especially if it seems like they spend a lot of money on fashion.

But as we are forced to decorate these bodies we have with some form of fabric adornment, it’s undeniable that clothing is important.

For me, clothing is how I express myself. For a long time, I was really sad. I didn’t feel like I deserved anything nice, and that it didn’t matter what I looked like. I couldn’t find things that really fit my body the way I wanted them to, so I would figure out a few outfits, then not give a shit. Messy hair. No makeup. The same gray sweatshirt. The same thoughts running through my head.

Hoping that no one would notice me. Hoping I could blend in, wear something that was just like everyone else’s, and not get extra attention or see a look of disgust on someone’s face when they passed me. You might be thinking that I’m insane, that no one is thinking or doing anything like that. You are correct in thinking that no one who matters is saying anything or thinking anything like that. But here’s a small sampling of things that have been said directly to my face while wearing outfits I’d carefully picked out, outfits I felt proud of. Outfits I felt good in. Outfits that to me, when I put them on, made me feel like I was presenting my best self to the world.

Express Jeans, and purple short-sleeved sweater. “Ugh. Why is it always the fat girls wearing the tightest clothes?” — disgusted man, to my face, in a crowded hallway. Never met him before, but it was the first day of my junior year in my new high school, and he was in my homeroom, turns out. So was the girl with him, who laughed.

Jeans and T-shirt: Car drives by. “You’re FAT!” says the dude leaning out the window. What a bold strike! Thank you good sir, I don’t own a mirror and had no idea. I was actually just walking to a pond to gaze upon my own visage, and now you’ve saved me the trip. But I should probably take that walk, as I could apparently use the exercise.

Jeans and black empire waisted shirt, black. Yellow flats. Fucking cute as fuck earrings: “Damn, you ever thought about going to a gym?” This young man, his counterpart and the two girls with them laughed for an entire block after walking up to me and imparting this wisdom. When this happens, I long to tell them that I’ve actually just given birth to twins, stillborn twins, but I didn’t have a chance that day. Plus I somehow doubt that would have made him feel bad. You almost ruined my favorite outfit for me, bro. You definitely ruined my night.

You might be thinking that I should be stronger. Yes, I definitely am working on trying to not let strangers’ opinions matter. But honestly, I’m not yet that thick-skinned that this doesn’t hurt my feelings, so I stopped caring for a while. “I’ll wait to buy anything until I look better.” A game I learned from my mother, who would promise me a new wardrobe for a certain number of pounds lost. I can still remember some of the things on it — baby-doll dresses. Doc Martens. Suspender skirt. I still want all those items. Also a skirt made of ties.

Taking care to put on makeup and fix my hair started to feel sad to me. I was scared of meeting criticism, and criticism’s twice as hard to take when you actually put forth an effort.

Eventually, something changed. I decided that taking an effort with my appearance wasn’t about anyone else. It was about me, and it was how I could show people that I feel like I’m worth taking the time.

I like my clothes. I like how I look in them. Am I 100% happy with my body? Honestly, no. Let’s be real though, my hair is killing it. As for the rest, I’ve been steadily working to a place where I wear things that make me feel good again. It’s nice when people compliment me on it, but I also don’t care if someone doesn’t like it.

This is why I get so upset when I hear people criticizing someone else’s body, in particular when they’re commenting that they should or should not be wearing “that.” Am I guilty of doing this? Yes. I’m not perfect, and I don’t want to be self-righteous and act like I’ve never said some shit.

But I’ve also been that person. The person struggling in front of the mirror, wishing for something to change, wishing that my body was different, that I could have an outfit like the one I was picturing in my mind. The outfit that made me look good. The outfit that gave me a sense of peace when I put it on, that was comfortable and flattering. It doesn’t happen as much as I’d like, but when I find that feeling I want to hold on to it.

So I have empathy for people who put something on and clearly feel good, only to be mocked because it’s inappropriate for their body type. It’s so fucking hard to find something to feel good in sometimes. Let’s stop ruining the sense of peace that others have found in their own ensemble.

I’m trying to assume that everyone’s getting dressed for them, these days. I’m going to operate on the basis that my opinion doesn’t matter unless it’s a compliment. If you ask, I’ll give you an honest assessment. If you don’t ask, I’ll assume you got this.

I’m wearing this for me. Thanks for liking it.