My green dress is not a dress, it's a t-shirt. My older cousin bought one of those deep V t-shirts from American Apparel and subsequently lost too much weight to wear it. I, who thoroughly enjoys the challenge of turning rags into a spirited outfit, requested that he give the shirt to me. Normally I wear that bitch in the summer with sandals and a belt at my waist, but seeing as the weather in Atlanta was uncharacteristically warm for January, I thought I'd sneak in a leg show while the opportunity was present.
I wore my green dress with a black leather jacket and black leather boots. I think the combination of all that leather and the length of my dress made this outfit a bit more scandalous than usual. The boys, of course, loved it - I think I caused a my share of car accidents on Fair St. - however, my female colleagues were less receptive to the site of my thick thighs.
You can always tell when someone is looking at you, and I felt as though I was standing before a tribunal while on my campus. It made me uncomfortable having so many women interested in the way I looked, and I began to wonder why women do this. Why do women feel the need to police each other's activity?
The moment I looked at myself in the mirror, I became fully aware of the length of my dress as well as the potential that excessive amounts of wind would put me in a precarious position. Bearing all of those awarenesses, I left the house anyway. However, women frequently felt the need to tell me that my skirt was short and that I knew I was cold. I came back at these women with clever quips, but at the same time I kind of wanted to tell them to mind their own wardrobes.
It is a tendency for women to police each other. Is it because we are protecting the values of our community, or are we made uncomfortable by the bold choices of others? When I cut my hair, I had girls coming to me saying, "I liked it better when it was long," or, "I don't like that color." My answer was simply, "ok" because their comments were as essential to me as a crucifix is to an atheist. Nobody asked you, is what I should have said, because seriously if I cared I would have taken a poll and weighed the data before I left for the barber shop.
As a kid, when girls used to bother me, my mom would tell me they were jealous. To me, it made no sense. In my logic, it seems that if I were jealous of someone, the most productive thing would be to find out exactly how to achieve what they have. It wasn't until years later that I believed her, when I realized that there are people out there who express their jealousy in anger. For instance, there is this girl on campus who seems to be imitating and emulating my persona. We used to be on kind speaking terms, but now when I see her she grills me like I killed her best friend. I understand it now, she is so frustrated by her inability to be me, that she now takes it out on me. Such is the dynamic of a hater.
I'm no saint. I talk shit about some of the garbage my fellow ladies wear: off-white cable knit tights as leggings still haunt my dreams, as do leggings that are see-through at this lumpy girl's lumpy cell-u-lit ass crack. I do try to avoid talking shit, and I will continue to try to be less of a hypocrite. At the same token, I don't make those comments known, because just as I saw myself in the mirror and decided that I was still going to wear my favorite not-a-dress in the whole world, you whores in your faux pas witnessed your own crimes of fashion and kept it pushing.
By the end of the day it got cold and I began laughing at myself for having misjudged the weather for the morning. Again, I was aware that I was actually cold, and I wanted so bad to get home and out of the cold. I don't need anyone to tell me how my body feels.
Why can't we just leave each other alone? Who are you to tell me what to do? Are you some sort of expert in fashion, morality? Are you Jesus? Are you my father? Are you even my favorite aunty? If you cannot give me a credible answer to any of these questions, then I would kindly ask you to put all your comments and suggestions down the toilet. That is, unless you are offering to buy my ass an alternative outfit. I never turn down free clothes.