My Wardrobe is Imploding
Since the pants epiphany and the purchase of three thrifted items (a draped sweater, a corduroy shirt, and a t-shirt), I am suddenly at a loss as to what’s happened to my capsule wardrobe. The first issue I see is that I saw my current weight as quick and temporary. I thought the weight would fall off as soon as I changed my medication, and that has not been the case. Thus, my thrown-together utilitarian capsule wardrobe was certainly not an expression of my soul. Looking at it now, I bemoan the cheap jeggings from Marshall’s. “I’m not a typical suburban housewife,” I scream in my head. “I’m cooler than this.” I really did used to be cool, confident, unusual. But all those years of trying to fit myself into the image of a musical theater bimbo or a stuffy-sexy opera singer ate away at my fashion identity. I started thinking in terms of “appropriateness” or sex appeal. Now I pretty much failed at all that anyway. I was once asked at a theater audition how I possibly could have been in a show on my resume— “were you a child?” they asked. I looked down at my white dance tights and my dress with the bow on the back and turned bright red. And then, years later, in opera auditions I was asked not once, but twice! — when I was due. What I thought were flattering empire-waist dresses were apparently reading as maternity frocks to the middle-aged men I was singing for. When I finally came to a point where I decided I was only wearing pants for auditions, I tore through my wardrobe, discarding dress after dress, all bought in hopes that “this will be the one” that will get me respect, get me taken seriously, and not prompt the pregnancy question. It was a relief to get rid of those demoralizing costumes. And it led to a later revelation that I abhor wearing dresses. They never look right on me, and often make me look like a giant baby. What I’m getting at is that I feel like I am going through yet another wardrobe crisis. The joggers I wear suddenly look like old sweatpants, and my shoes look teeny-tiny and all out of balance with the rest of my body. Even the basic crew-neck tees from ASOS look like boxy men’s shirts—something I’ve always found unflattering and avoided. I like loose-fitting, scoop-neck tops that show off my clavicles. Basically, my clothes look like they’re for someone who’s given up, who wears dark colors because they’re slimming, who sees themselves as nothing special. And that’s pretty spot-on for me as of late. Being debilitatingly depressed and cycling through nightmares of medications and symptoms makes you feel like giving up. It makes you feel like you’re nothing special because you can’t work, you can barely function, and look at all those not-so-special people out there working and functioning without a problem. And all this weight gain has made me want to be smaller, look slimmer, not get in anyone’s way. This weight gain seems impolite - “oh, I’m so sorry I’m so disgusting and that you have to look at me, so I just won’t leave the house.” I’ve been wanting to literally shrivel up and die. Not wanting my family to have to get a crane to get my dead body out of the house, I think I should lose some weight before I call it quits. It’s no wonder I hate my clothes. I’ve been hating myself for years now, and didn’t think I deserved anything better. But since the men’s pants—since that day in the dressing room, I’ve started to remember who I was, who I really am. It seems wasteful to revamp my wardrobe when I’m in the process of losing weight. But I’m fighting for my life here, and if some old men’s pants from the thrift store make me feel like I have a soul after all, then I’m damn well going to buy them. If the bright green shirt and the pale blue t-shirt and the burgundy sweater put a little life into me, then they’re worth buying, too. I want to be responsible, environmentally speaking, but first and foremost, I have to survive. And in some strange way, these new-to-me clothes are helping. I’m literally seeing myself differently. I’m taking my true identity into account when I dress myself for the day. And just as importantly, I’m getting dressed for the day. Things are looking up.