It starts with either dressing dolls as little girls or being dressed as dolls as little girls, or both. There is an instinct to care for, to beautify, to style, to comb, to groom. Perhaps as old as our chimpanzee heritage, we, as humans, are so very concerned with our cleanliness and this leads to concern over our appearance, our smoothness of hair, our flattery of frock.
But as we travel through time in this dizzyingly spinning atmosphere both literally and culturally, how do we make sense of the corporate advertising machine which pumps us full of insecurity as young women and strokes our egos as we emulate, imitate, buy and sell, adorning ourselves with labels or label look-alikes, striving to be the best-groomed chimp in the tree, the lovliest in the land, mirror, mirror, can't you see, even if I'm NOT the fairest, I've still got some kick-your-derriere leather boots?
In the mad rush for Jordache jeans during my ninth grade year of high school about 150 years ago, I was so struck by the expense that I remember the pivotal turning point of my turning my young face away, completely, from fashion.
So distraught was I that the new expectations did not simply involve completing my biology homework and being a nice friend, but now included such things as "begging for a new pair of jeans," or "saving up for that cute outfit" that I decided it was all too much for me and spent my high school years hiding away my figure in baggy, oversized thrift-store clothes and sweat pants.
It wasn't that I didn't have a fashion sense, not at all. In fact, my tastes were so refined that in my window shopping expeditions which I took almost always solo, my hungry eyes never failed to make contact with and lock onto cashmere, silk, high-end, exotic fabrics and artistic designs which were pricey and luscious.
Growing up in the heart of New York City was not easy for a girl with expensive tastes and an aversion to the competition and expense they promoted. So I shrugged along in my intensely unflattering outfits and tried to make sense of my own inner dichotomy.
Dressing for success is an old, old concept. "Clothes make the man" is what people used to say in reference to distinguishing a professional man from a manual laborer or blue-collar worker. Dandies and aristocrats used clothes as a way of being ostentatious, of showing off their excess, of outshining everyone in the room.
Given that we are exposed to reality television shows that flaunt all levels of fashion from survivor island where everyone is half nude yet stunningly starving to the show about the housewives where the babies wear onesies threaded through with gold leaf trim, we tread water and use our credit cards, defining and redefining ourselves as mothers, professional women, artists, workers, daters, wives, dancers, hotties, conservative smarties, or whatever it is we want to say about ourselves.
I have gone through periods in my life of envying the absent minded professor with the same outfit hung up seven times in his closet for rotation. The bliss of exiting this issue, of never having to define myself, especially around other women, in terms of my sexuality, my status, my financial state, through my clothes seemed luxurious to me.
As I head into my early forties, I have grown intensely fond of my clothes. I now have a small (very small) budget which allows me to replenish and renew items as I see fit, which is quite rarely, but when I do, I do so guilt free. I have finally come to learn which things look best on me and why and to ignore, for the most part, the sizes of pants which can vary up to three numbers in either direction depending on the style and the store (finally figured that out!)
I now know that being comfortable and attractive is more important to me than being a head-turner, and looking clean and inviting means more than a power suit. I want to feel that I recognize myself when I get dressed (except in the naughty way), that I am not going off to work in drag, in costume, changing my identity for the duration of the day.
For one thing, I can't sustain it and high heels are painful for six hours in a classroom. For another, I want my clothes to reflect me, not taunt me with how I should behave.
I still love a good party dress and some pumps but I always take them off when I dance.
Aimee Boyle is a freelance writer and mother of a recent eleven-year-old musician and an eight-year-old karate yellow belt.