The Men's Pants Epiphany — Mood and Clothes

I went thrifting again. This time at Salvation Army. This time in the men's section. I tried a few sweaters, but the one I liked had a smell that I suspect was permanent. And then I tried a few pairs of men's trousers. I was standing there in the god-awful plywood changing room full of dust bunnies, and that's when it clicked: this is who I am. This is the person I used to be. Full of confidence, conviction, idealism. The person who didn't care what anyone thought. I realized that this decade-long saga with my weight, this tangent I've been on into the world of superficiality and blind convention has been just that: a tangent from the truth of who I am.

Let me explain: I'll start at the beginning. I was in 8th grade, getting dressed for I don't know what, when I went into my older brother's room, grabbed a pair of jeans and a leather jacket, and put them on. I felt a thrill wearing those clothes. I can't describe it any other way- it was the thrill of getting away with something. I was no longer subject to the acid-washed Jordache jeans with the zippers at the ankles. I was no longer a slightly disappointing size 7 at age 13. I was a person. The symbolism here is not lost on me: as women, we are viewed as objects, decoration. As men, we are viewed as people, with thoughts and interests and ideas. I was stepping into men's clothes, and into a sense of myself as a real person. It was at that point that I stopped shopping in the junior's department and started wearing vintage or thrifted clothes exclusively. The most significant purchase was a pair of too-big vintage combat boots that I wore all through high school. This led to wearing men's pajamas as clothes, and a huge oversized ankle-length army topcoat with epaulets and gold buttons. My best friend Liz and I would scour the local Savers for the best-fitting men's trousers and corduroys and jeans. We gave little thought to what size they were, judging them simply on fit and our own personal aesthetic. The summer between high school and college, I worked in the back room of Salvation Army, scoring all the coolest 70s vintage mumus and "hippie" dresses. None of these had sizes that I took notice of. Liz went to Greece and returned with a housecoat for me, like the old ladies would wear- sort of an apron-top for doing housework in. I obviously loved it. When I was 17 I went to Kenya for a volunteer work trip. We layered long skirts right over our work pants. There's a picture of me with an Adidas sweatshirt right over the top of that.

College was much like high school. My new friend Kate and I would share our best men's pants or sweats. We took dance class and so wore layers of dance clothes all day. I remember my voice teacher reprimanding me for wearing these great vintage maroon sweatpants to my voice lesson. He's the one who convinced me to stick to my opera major and drop the modern dance classes. He's the one who convinced me that vegetarianism was not good for singers- that I needed to eat pork for strength. And slowly but surely, my pursuit of a career as a classical singer started to chip away at all my previous convictions, especially that I was a singer and a dancer. That I was a hippie and a vegetarian. That I would not subject myself to fitting into stereotypes for women and what they should look like, how they should behave. I started buying clothes at Banana Republic with my mom's credit card, thinking of it as a "business expense." I wore a navy blue conservative suit with a long skirt for opera audition class and was told that I should "show some leg." Over the years there were times where I returned to my old ways- especially those years I rode a bicycle. That feeling of getting away with something came back. I started eating raw foods and hanging out with countercultural types. But then the other shoe started to drop. I was sexually assaulted by a coworker at a gym where I did massage therapy. Then I got "doored" on my bike (someone opened a car door into me as I rode past) and broke my finger. Then I was sexually harassed and threatened with expulsion at my massage school. Then I started gaining weight and dating someone more conventional. Then I had a breakdown and went home to live with my parents. Then I worked at a couple theaters that were very small-town conventional. I started shaving my legs and dieting. I moved to New York and got into Overeaters Anonymous, lost a lot of weight, passed as a thin person. I went on a lot of auditions, wearing dresses or tight (women's) jeans. I wore makeup and "did my hair." I forgot who I was. I got some jobs in musical theater. I met my husband. He helped me transition into singing opera again in hopes of me gaining more respect and more money, but it was more of the same. Twice at auditions I was asked if I was pregnant. I went on an endless search for an audition dress. I had no idea who I was. We moved out of the city. I had breakdown after breakdown. I read the book Women in Clothes. I went thrifting. I tried on these men's pants. And, click: I remembered who I was. All this time and energy spent on capsule wardrobes, and in one single moment, I realized everything was wrong. All my clothes are wrong, and all my aspirations have been wrong. I am much more than I thought I was.