We stand in front of the mirror, smiling. It's taken us a lifetime each to have the courage to look like we do.
I think back to the modesty checks before leaving the house when I was growing up-- can't inspire the boys and men to sin by showing skin. Later on-- hours spent finding the perfect outfit to get the right boy's attention, wasn't that what you're supposed to do? The boys were just theoretical, anyway, we couldn't date them until we were ready for marriage. It worked well until it didn't, and I knew standing up there in that white dress that I was just not what I had expected I was. First kiss told me the truth about myself.
Dresses feel theatrical. Probably dresses are someone's idea of their true self expression, but for me dresses are what you wear when you need to draw out a particular type of social attention. I wore them as a tool. I started asking myself questions like, do I really want this kind of attention? Is molding this kind of social energy around me encouraging how I see myself? Do I like who I am when I display femininity in this way?
Maybe these are easy questions for some people-- I suspect for lots of women these are easy answers. I wrestled with them because dresses are pretty after all, it's nice to have an outfit with just one thing on your body, because I'm vain, and mostly because they made me feel like I could ask for help and have it automatically be given. Opting in to displaying femininity in that way meant, for me, that I was choosing a mental excuse. Someone else will do it, I have a dress on and I look Pretty.
Please allow me to reiterate-- "for me", wearing a dress fosters a dependent mindset. I know now that I can ask for help regardless of what I'm wearing, but in a dress...it feels like I'm opting in to generations of women who were forced to rely on the men in their lives. I feel hobbled. I feel like I have no other choice but to ask for help, and what kind of choice is that? It doesn't even matter what I might need help with, really. I feel a driving need to be able to fight in a zombie apocalypse at any given moment and I really do think I would be hampered by flowing skirts. Please allow me to expound-- that feeling is my own, and in no way do I extend it to all y'all beautiful folks out there wearing dresses. You're gorgeous and vibrant, live your best life. If you can, with the zombies and all.
Do I feel like I'm me when I wear a dress? Absolutely not. I feel most vibrant in sturdy pants and a flannel. I love that strong, confident femmes who wear dresses stride through the world, and while I can confidently stride in a pair of heels-- in the end it's a piece of theater covering up a butch heart.
So here we are, standing in front of the mirror together. We've built ourselves purposefully, maybe even counter to what surroundings tell us we should be. I slide your suit jacket onto your shoulders and gently move my hands over your collar to draw you in for a kiss. You are a jewel made of sunlight and I want to treasure you for as long as I am able.
