The Truth About Me and Dresses

Everyone in the world has at least one lie that they tell themselves. Maybe it's that they can cook, that they're intellectual when they're really not or that they're much more physically fit than they actually are. We all have that one blind side, those truths about ourselves that we realize and we just refuse to accept. For me, among many others, it's dresses and skirts. I just can't accept that I hate wearing them.

Every year, as spring approaches I go through my girly phase. All I want to do is wear pretty, feminine things and channel Audrey Hepburn and the 1950's. I go out and buy new clothes, twirling in front of the mirror as I picture Maddie and myself strolling through the sunshine of summer, looking like we belong on the streets of Paris. Do I ever wear these clothes? No. I don't. By the time summer arrives I'm over it, and even if I think of wearing the cute skirts and dresses, I take one look outside and change my mind. It's too windy, they're uncomfortable, bla bla bla. And I end up going out in jeans and a t-shirt, looking like a slob. Okay, maybe not a slob, but definitely not like I belong in Paris.

I like to pretend that my hatred for wearing skirts shows that I'm a more evolved woman, that I won't sacrifice something as crucial as comfort for style and beauty. But the truth is, I think taking the time to dress in something nice and take pride in your appearance shows a lot more dignity and respect for yourself than throwing on jeans and a t-shirt and calling it feminism. After all, a feminist is above all proud to be a woman. Why would a feminist look down their nose at something feminine? And you know what else? I love skirts! I love the way they look on me, they way they make me feel when I stare at myself in the mirror. So, I buy them. And they sit in my closet unworn, because I hate how careful I have to be when I sit down, how I have to be nervous every time there's a breeze. And yet, despite my knowledge of their fate, I can't stop buying them.

Maybe the reason we tell ourselves these lies, is because we refuse to give up. If we admit that we can't cook, or we're not intellectual, what reason would there be to pull out the frying pans and works of Shakespeare? We tell these lies because it's who we hope to be. It's the ideal version of ourselves. If we give up the lie do we give up our hope? Or would being honest with ourselves give us the kick in the pants to actually make it a reality? I don't know. But I bought a dress today, and I'm going to try to wear it. Just as soon as I find a cute pair of comfortable shoes to go with it. (What? At least some part of me has to be comfortable).