On Getting Dressed Up With Nowhere To Go
Sunday, bloody Sunday.
You’re a hungover slow loris, making you an extremely slow loris. (If you don’t know what a slow loris is, but you can just tell that you are one, click here.) The expectations for Sunday are low: you are supposed to brunch, you are supposed to Instagram what you ate at brunch, and then you are supposed to get back in bed and Netflix yourself into oblivion.
If you’re psycho like me, you’re one of those who refuse to let Sunday slip by sleepily. You have to push through it all: go for the quick-fix protein bar instead of the eggs benedict, Instagram the extra large coffee accompanying your open laptop instead of your midday meal on a city sidewalk. Your life has, albeit reluctantly, got to go on.
However, my thighs never want it to. They plead for spandex and Top Shop leggings. My collarbones beg for cashmere crew necks (not as flattering on me as they are comfortable). My body says yes, but my heart says no. I’m going to be out and about, but I’m not going to be doing anything fabulous. I’m going to be writing, but in a crowded café. Or I’m going to be reading, but in a library. So how the hell am I supposed to dress? I won’t be having luxuriously slow meals or socializing with anyone at all. On a typical Sunday, I won’t see any friends until four or five in the afternoon. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with them sooner, it’s just that it isn’t my first priority.
Sunday is limbo. I’m out but not out out and I’m busy but not in any way exciting. Is it kosher if I wear those sweats from Bloomingdale’s because they camouflage as trendy pants? When I’m somewhere that isn’t really anywhere–no matter what day of the week it happens to be–I feel torn between my obligation to style and my lackadaisical avoidance of effort.
One of my best friends is a strong believer in that looking good is feeling good. Of course, she’s right. I mean, no one enjoys looking like shit. It’s just easy to forget how bad you look when your only mirror for seven hours is your laptop screen’s jet black sleep mode.
So, she makes the extra effort in the morning. Applies some eyeliner, fixes her hair, and says it makes the biggest difference in the world. And get this: she always wears jeans. I respect her way of thinking; she looks good to please herself. She does what she needs to do to be the happiest she can be. I usually don’t. And every once in a while, when I realize how bleh I look because of it, I feel like shit. Shoulda put on some eyeliner, Hannah. Whatchu thinking, girl? Rule numero uno.
Today, I’m wearing blue skinny jeans, a striped cream sweater, and black Supergas. I don’t look bad; actually, it’s impressive I opted for the jeans. I could look better, though. I could’ve went for the overalls or the new dress. Not only is it hard for me to get dressed up on Sundays, but it’s hard for me to think of something creative to wear to begin with. There’s no boy I’m trying to impress, and I’d get cold on my walk home tonight. Besides, what if my butt starts to stick to my chair?
Another Sunday, another day of jeans and Supergas. What pushes you to look good when you feel bad? And is it really worth it to get dressed up when there’s nowhere to go?