Getting Dressed

Dressing was an event this morning. The detritus of my efforts lies across the bed, silk shirts and cardigans strewn over my duvet. 

I had initially made a beeline for one particular skirt - forest green, wool, newly acquired through TradeMe. I thought my friend, S, would like it, particularly paired with a gauzy white shirt she had picked out for me recently. I buttoned up the shirt and tucked in the skirt, and as suspected, it looked good... just, not quite right. Each component, though fine on its own, combined to create a look that screamed "corporate". A quick video call to my friend, R, confirmed this to be the case, and outfit no. 1 was discarded. 

Outfit no. 2 took the form of a sea-green corduroy skirt and a buttery new jumper. I took a picture and sent it to R, continuing to play around with it in the meantime. The outfit was drastically improved by rolling up the waist to reveal a bit of (black-tight-clad) leg. Ten minutes or so later, though, I still wasn't happy.

By this point I actually needed to leave for church, so I pulled an old Dorothy Perkins dress off the rack, shoved my feet into a pair of heeled boots and ran out the door, leaving the mess on my bed to be cleaned up later. 

What was that all about? I have been puzzling over this all day. Was I trying to impress someone? (Actually, I know the answer to that one: no). Have I turned into a vapid princess who only cares about how she looks? (I don't think so?) Am I secretly skirt and shirt averse? (Hmm). 

Having recently read Mark Sayers' The Trouble with Paris, I have the pitfalls of consumerism front of mind. I am aware that a new outfit does not a new person make, and resist capitalist narratives that would try and sell me this lie. But fashion empires, however poorly constructed and however shaky their foundations, exist for a reason. We like clothes. And we dress the way we do for a myriad of reasons, reasons that often change over time. 

I have been saying to S that I am not feeling so much of my wardrobe. I had a huge clear out in January, getting rid of several black bags full of clothes and examining empty hangers with satisfaction. The bags were full of bold patterns I couldn't bear to look at anymore. What had once seemed young and fun (both of which I still consider myself to be) now seemed garish and hokey. I patiently waited until my finances had stabilised before going out and sourcing my (new-to-me) wardrobe from higher-end op shops. The new wardrobe features warm, slightly subdued knits and a-line skirts. There are v-necklines and jumpsuits in there. Lots of items I intend to wear to work, others I plan on wearing for casual Tuesday night TV-viewing. I didn't change my wardrobe because I am a shopaholic or materialistic or a fashion fiend. My clothes just didn't feel like me anymore, and that's okay. 

I sometimes feel bad admitting that I like clothes and care about the way that I look. There are certain things that I will only wear while schlepping around the house, and I struggle to wear jeans to work even on the days we're encouraged to. Getting dressed in a manner I believe to be appropriate to the situation helps me feel prepared and sometimes even powerful. With a little eyeliner and the right boots, I feel capable of tackling the day. 

I also like to wear beautiful things, something I feel compelled to admit in even more muted tones. But it's true: I like gold jewellery and flattering silhouettes and high-quality materials. I find these things beautiful, and I feel (sometimes, not always) beautiful in them. I move through the world more comfortably and confidently with something beautiful on my body. 

Beauty in its truest, noblest sense doesn't come from clothes; I know this adage to be true. But it would be foolish to deny the enjoyment we can get from catching a glimpse of a well-dressed woman on the street, or even of ourselves on a particularly good-outfit day. Appreciating an intentionally constructed beauty doesn't have to detract from our noticing beauty in its other, plentiful forms: in creation, in the wrinkled faces of loved ones, in a sentence. Beauty always adds something to our delight in the world, never diminishes. 

When I was struggling to get dressed this morning, I was, in a way, fighting for beauty. I wanted to feel like the best version of myself, so that I could look in the mirror and say: "I am starting with something beautiful here, let's go and add beauty to the day."