First Day of Shopping

I recently took it upon myself to redo a good amount of my wardrobe. Not all of it--I'm too much of a sentimentalist for that, and besides, I have some awesomely nerdy shirts that make me smile enough to justify getting out of bed in the morning--but some rather large portions of it. Now, this topic is already boring me, so I'll jump, as per usual, to a "back-when-it-all-began" style of flashback.

Way back when I first came back to Arizona from my college in the far away land of Pennsylvania, there was a brief little period when I had trouble adjusting to life in a small-ish town, which is a nice way of saying that I had trouble adjusting to life, period. Back at school I formed a bit of a new identity for myself; I changed, or at least I thought I changed, but my change was location-specific. Part of the reason why I left my home state in the first place was because I knew I would be the same person if I stayed. Turns out I was right; the only problem was that I didn't account for what would happen when I came back. I never minded the person I used to be very much, but that person never seemed very accurate. He wasn't quite hitting the nail on the head when it came to being me, and even if I'm not at the point where I'm precisely hammering the nail, at least the head of the hammer is glancing off of it instead of banging into the wood, hitting nothing at all. (If that metaphor seemed a little...strange, that's because it's early and I don't feel like thinking about it for too long).

The hammer is my sexual identity, and the nail is...also my sexual identity, I guess. I'm tired.

So there I was, at the beginning of my summer vacation, trying to figure out what to do for three months--or, more accurately, trying to figure out what to do with myself for the rest of ever--and there showed up my catalyst for this story: a denim tuxedo vest.

Seriously.

This, but even less wearable, and meant for men (somehow).

I was supposed to be on my way to meet some friends at our old high school. Our task for the day would be to watch and give feedback for some World History final project presentations, the same project we had done three years earlier. I managed to drag myself out of bed, crawl lazily to my closet, pull it open, and look inside, and there it was, in all its disgustingly denim-y glory, a relic from some high school 80s dance that had since been gathering dust. It really only caught my eye for a second before I looked away, but that second was long enough to embed a thought into my half-functioning, 7 o'clock in the morning brainwaves.

Why not wear it?

It's worth mentioning at this point that for some obscure reason, I associate that vest with my first boyfriend. It's not entirely clear why; I didn't even meet him until months after the dance, and by our first date I had already forgotten that I had at some time thought it was a good idea to wear a denim anything-other-than-jeans. Maybe it is because both experiences--the school dance and my first date with him--both felt new; they were times when I cut loose and let go and just lived. The actual nights were different (though I was wearing snake-skin sunglasses for one and had my first male kiss at the other, so I guess both of them were extremely gay) but still they're tied together in my head, bound like a BDSM couple that can't remember the safeword: it doesn't matter if they want to be finished with each other, they're just gonna keep messing around until I can't tell one from the other. (That metaphor didn't really work either. Shut up.)

As I looked at it, for the life of me I couldn't think of a good reason not to wear it. Briefly it occurred to me that it wasn't my style, but then a clearer thought forced itself on me: I don't actually know what my style is.

A friend of mine recently told me that I dress like I'm unsure. I'm not entirely sure what that was supposed to mean, but I'm going to go ahead and assume that I understand it for the sake of the story. It's not just a statement about me being all bisexual and stuff (dude, like, yeah) even though that's probably what she meant. It's deeper than that.

What we wear says a lot about us, but not just to other people (although that is a big part of it, seeing as a person's opinion of you is decided within a tenth of a second). What we wear tells us a lot about ourselves. Think about it. That choice in the morning of what you put on your body is a statement on your mood, your personality, what makes you happy, what you like, etc. etc. You can tell a lot about yourself by what you're wearing today. It might say something simple like "I just felt like being comfortable today" or "I like the color green", but at least that's something.

His wardrobe informs me that he must have an enormous penis. Obviously.

Looking into my wardrobe, no matter what outfit I choose for the day, you can (almost always) reach two conclusions about me. One: he has a nerdy sense of humor. Two: he really likes the color blue. A lot. Seriously, my entire closet is filled with witty t-shirts, and my pants drawer consists of two pairs of shorts and a crap-ton of jeans (a crap-ton is a universally accepted measurement, somewhat equivalent to four loads and eighteen bundles). Don't get me wrong, I love those shirts, but their ability to say something about me is limited to "I think I'm funny" and "I'm really lazy in the morning". No, strike that--what they really say are that I like it when other people find my shirts clever, or interesting, or anything other than ambivalently acceptable. They give me a personality, and if I'm being really honest they keep me from having to make my own.

So little by little, as a make a bit of money here and there and can afford to go, I've been treking down to Goodwill or Target or anything else in my price range to replace at least some of the arsenal of emotional distanciation that is my closet. It's not easy. They don't tell you how much those wardrobe shopping makeover montages cost in the movies. Spoiler alert: it's a lot of money.

"I'm going to take you out, spend all of your money on clothes, and then ditch you to bang your daughter. Interested?"

But somehow still I'm kind of pulling it off. I think. Mostly my expeditions have bought me a few button-downs and some plain t-shirts instead of my printed ones, but even that little step has me feeling better about myself. Not because those shirts aren't me. They just aren't all of me, and I can't expect to feel comfortable if they're all I'm wearing all of the time. I keep having to remind myself that what makes me interesting is that I'm multifaceted. I don't have to get all fancy all the time, or be funny all the time, or be athletic all the time, or be nerdy all the time. I just have to be me, as often as I can.

So I wore the damn vest. My friends laughed, a lot, and one of them spent the entire day complaining about it, but I waited to take it off until I was good and ready. I kept it on, and as they asked me repeatedly why I was wearing it, I gave them half answers. I didn't feel like I owed them much of an explanation. Just like the clothes I'm buying now, the words I'm about to post, and the human body that was rotting in the trunk of my car last week, it only tangentially had to do with my friends.

It was for me.