Dress Up

The last time I could have been considered fashionable was probably back when my mother still dressed me. Of course, any compliment on my appearance then would have been followed by a pinch on the cheek. I had an extended awkward phase that transcended even the absurdity of 90’s fashion. I loved polyester pants, tucked-in polo’s, and enormous skate shoes. Pretty much everything I wore was one to two sizes too big for me. This was a cost-saving measure on my mom’s part due to the alarming rate at which my body was elongating. I, of course, knew this strategy well, but it still took years to accept that I had, in fact, stopped growing. I’d just been wearing loose underwear, baggy shirts, and clown shoes for most of my adult life.

Like most kids, I was extremely self-conscious about my body. This was undoubtedly made worse by my Mormon upbringing, which strongly emphasizes modesty. As a result, I almost never wore shorts. An amusing historical point when you consider that my modern uniform includes the shortest shorts I can find. Gathering up the courage to wear shorts was no small feat. Any time I was spotted bare-legged, someone would inevitably remark on my sizable calves and declare that I must be a runner. Imagine their disappointment when I told them it was just because I had a habit of walking on my toes. The heat of Los Angeles finally pushed me over the edge, and I slipped into a pair of shorts that would forever change my dressing habits. I quickly realized everything I knew about dressing myself was wrong. For too long, I had tried not to draw attention to myself, wearing generic, loose-fitting t-shirts and pants. I started turning over my wardrobe with short shorts, colorful socks, and vibrant shirts, all the while selecting a size or two down from what I thought was correct. Not only was this more comfortable, but I felt more confident, too. I started to feel proud of my shapely legs and lanky body. The more comfortable I felt in my clothes, the more comfortable I felt in my body. I stopped caring what other people thought about how I looked and began outfitting myself in increasingly wilder, more colorful clothing.

I knew I had overcome my concern for other people’s opinions when I bought myself a straw fedora. I had always wanted a fancy hat but was mortified by the potential for ridicule from my surrounding ball-cap-wearing peers. I had this crippling, irrational fear that donning such a hat would attract unsolicited verbal abuse. “Hat person, hat person. Look at that hat person wearing a hat,” they’d jeer.

This, of course, did not happen. In fact, to my surprise, people actually started to compliment my appearance. Who knew that wearing what you love could be a fashion statement? I’ve never been one to care about trends, and if the millennial and zoomer attire is any indication, the new trend is no trend. I hope that this, along with the rise of thrifting, spells doom for the fast fashion industry.

I grow increasingly weary of the capitalist churn, replacing poorly manufactured clothing once a year. I’ve adopted the “buy it once” mentality and specifically seek out ethical, sustainable brands that work with natural materials. No more polyester pants. I see my wardrobe as an investment in my confidence. It feels good to look nice.

It feels good to wear what I want to wear and not what I think someone else would like me to wear.