I‘m not what you‘d call a “closet crier.” I’m a closet warrior; it’s a battle getting dressed every morning. So, it wasn’t surprising that one Sunday afternoon I found myself in my walk-in closet yelling at my clothes, with my friend, Marie, by my side.
“Explain to me, again, your sexy iceberg theory,“ she said looking confused. Marie is a image consultant. She has the sophisticated style of a Sharon Stone and a hint of hilly billy twang in the odd word, a result of growing up in the South. She had spent 28 years in the modeling industry, both as a model and agency owner, and was doing her best to understand me.
“The sexy icebery theory,“ I said sniveling, “ Says it’s not what you wear that makes you sexy, it’s who you are and how much you like who you are.“
“So why are we here again?“ asked Marie as she looked around at the dissary of clothes, shoes, and belts.
“I need your help testing it,“ I explained arms akimbo. “I want to put together two outfits. A really sexy one and a not so sexy one. Then I’ll compare people‘s reactions.“
Marie rolled her eyes. “Y’ll talking dumb, ya know that? You don’t have to test the truth. Just be yourself.“
I gaped at her. The idea seemed preposterous. I had no idea what it meant to dress like me.
Marie put her hand on my shoulder as if to steady me. “Look,“ she said, “I’ve been around the most beautiful women in the world. Sexy comes from a woman's honesty, intelligence, and attitude, both about herself and how she treats others. It's the depth of her integrity, not the depth of cleavage that counts.“
“If that’s the case,“ I said pouting, “Why do so many of us spend so much time and money trying to dress like someone else’s definition of sexy?“
Marie thought about it. “Girl, haven’t you figured out, comparing yourself is the path to insecurity?“ she said shuffling through a rack of my clothes. “And that’s is exactly when you stop trusting yourself.“ She pulled out a black lace-trimmed Betsey Johnson top with a bold red rose print and inspected the label.