Clothes Don’t Make The Girl… Right?

My female friends want to put me in dresses and makeup because they do that to themselves to “look pretty.” My close-minded male friends want to see me in dresses, maybe because I can bomb a football like a missile and catch it on the run better than they can. And I don’t mean to threaten their masculinity, but playing sports is fun and more fun when I excel at them. Some of my guy friends don’t want to see me in dresses because they’re used to me in pants, and to wear a dress is to defy the image that I’ve created for myself. And they’re not ready to think I can mingle with girls and talk about “which outfit looks better with those shoes.” Some of my other female friends want to see me rocking new kicks and clothes like they do–urban fresh, so to speak–but shopping for new clothes every week isn’t my style. Some of my friends get annoyed when I wear skinny jeans like scenesters and hipsters. Sorry, but I bought them a while back with my then lover now ex, and I refuse to throw away good jeans ‘coz they don’t come cheap these days.

I love sweat pants ‘coz they’re comfy and they give me the freedom to move and make a play on a nicely thrown ball. I love men’s sized small t-shirts unlike the women’s section because the guys’ bigger fit tends to conceal my chub when I don’t have time to work out for a couple weeks. I love sneakers, but I hate high-tops, and I’ve never been able to stand the clacking sound that heels make against tile or hardwood or any other surface, except for carpet. I think those fashionable women’s boots are utterly pointless because they sure as hell can’t walk you through the snow better than my Timberlands can. I love blouses and slacks and sometimes flats because when I wear them well, they make me feel important–yuppie important. Young, urban, and professional. I feel sexy because I feel accomplished. I call my dress shirts my “success clothes.” Maybe they don’t always score me some cuties, but they do score me a job, and I can’t complain.

I can’t function properly without wearing a “wife-beater” under my shirts. I feel naked. They keep me warm. Wearing soccer socks in the winter is amazing, and I must admit that panty hoses have a certain sensual appeal to them that to this day I can’t quite explain.

I wouldn’t mind wearing a decent summer dress if I had to. They’re the only type of dresses I actually like–on myself or any other woman. They’re casual. I’m not a fan of semi-formal dresses or gowns or any of that hodgepodge. They seem stifling, like this dress makes you look sexy for one night but that’s not really how you look everyday after you wake up. Pulling off a summer dress doesn’t require much work, nor pretenses.

I hate when people say that I look nice or cute or pretty when I’m stuffed into something like a dress. I don’t feel nice or pretty or cute. I feel uncomfortable, in that it isn’t me. I feel okay when people say I look nice in my button-downs and slacks–I feel falsely successful, because they think I’m already in the workforce when I’m still a student. I feel pretty damn great when people–though rarely–say that they’re feeling my jeans and sweaters and “I don’t give a damn” disposition, because really, I don’t give a damn what I wear on a daily basis. My clothes don’t make me.

I make them.