The Hidden Labour of Getting Dressed

This morning, my husband got dressed in about thirty seconds flat. T-shirt. Jeans. Socks. Pants.

Done.

If he wanted a jumper or hoodie, that might have added another five seconds.

And it's pretty much the same when he's getting ready for work. Even when he needs to wear a suit, the most complicated decision he has to make is which tie to wear.

And then there's me.

Can I wear jeans and a t-shirt to work? These days? Absolutely. And do I? Well, yes.

But the process takes considerably longer.

T-shirt, sure.

Jeans, sure.

Socks, sure.

Knickers. Big ones? Small ones? Matching the bra?

Oh yeah. Bra. Which one?

What colour is my top? What am I doing today? Do the girls need more support for some reason?

And then there's the top layer. Jumper? Hoodie? Cardigan? Which one will keep me warm without cooking me alive in the office?

And that's just a simple outfit.

What about the days I need tights? Skirts? Shoes?

Oh my gosh, the combinations are endless.

Most days I do pick a trousers-and-top combo. It’s simple, it’s easy, and it allows me to go for a walk without worrying that my thighs are going to rub together.

There are times though that I want to make an effort. Yes, even though nobody sees me in the office. Even though nobody can see me whilst I jabber away on the radio.

A skirt.

A dress.

So, then come the decisions. Is it cold? Yes, tights. No, can I get away with bare legs?

Am I walking today? Do I need to wear trainers or can I wear flats or my boots?

If I wear tights am I wearing trainers or boots with the outfit and if it’s the boots then I need socks as well as the tights!

Where are my chub rub shorts?

Where are my boots? They should be in the bottom of the wardrobe.

Why do I have so many pairs of shoes?

Oooh platform Docs, I could wear those…

Right, accessories. Cardigan? Shawl? Belt? Jewellery?

How am I wearing my hair, usual low-slung ponytail? A high ponytail? Bunches? Using a headband? Cutting it all off and going back to bed?

Tempting. And yet, I’ve not once done a Britney.

I guess the question is why do I bother?

Why, if nobody is going to see me, do I worry about what I’m wearing and if you can see my bra underneath my shirt?

Is it a voice in my head?

My Mum? Is it her in my head telling me that I need to look nice?

Pippa, you need to wear clean underwear just in case you get hit by a bus.

I can tell you now, Mother, that if I got hit by a bus my underwear would not be clean and it would also probably be the least of my worries.

It would all be so much easier if…

If it was as simple as it is for Mr PippaD. If my choices were plain and simple, this and this and this. Done.

But more is expected of women isn’t it? Especially if it is somewhere where people might *see* you. Going on a walk, going to the shops, going to work.

Which, quite frankly, is just ridiculous.

People aren’t going about their day looking at me.

I’m just a random woman in their way. A random woman going about her day.

But then of course there are the times that people *are* going to be looking at me.

My sister-in-law arranged a rather special bash for her birthday. Ballgowns were required.

BALLGOWNS!

The princess in me was very excited.

However, the reasonable (rational?) and sane part of me was worried.

It’s *easy* for men. Suit on.

Bish bash bosh. Job done.

It’s considerably harder for me because…

Well, because I’m fat.

There are no two ways about saying it.

I don’t have fat. I am fat.

I was going to need a dress that not only fitted the brief, but also fitted me.

That I was comfortable in.

That I was able to dance all night in.

I was going to need a dress that I was happy in.

That I was happy for people to see me.

There it is again.

Why am I concerned about what other people might think of me?

People weren’t going to be looking at me.

All eyes would be on my sister in law.

Everyone at the party would be more worried about what they were wearing and what other people were thinking about them than silently judging others.

And that’s where it gets complicated, isn’t it?

Do we all think that everyone is looking at us and judging us?

Judging us for what we're wearing, what we're not wearing, and how we look according to some arbitrary rules that we all instinctively know.

Are we dressing for how we want other people to view us?

Are we dressing for others instead of for ourselves?

And if you’d asked me this before I’d fallen down this rabbit hole, I would have said that I don’t think I am.

But now.

If I could wear what I wanted every day, I’d be dressed in bright colours, in statement patterns.

I’d wear my skirts with my full petticoats.

I’d wear my graphic dresses.

I’d wear the clothes that I wear to the Ren Faires.

I’d wear corsets.

I’d wear my Victorian and Edwardian skirts.

I’d wear jeans and printed t-shirts.

And so why don’t I wear those things?

I own them.

I have my skirts and petticoats.

I have my graphic dresses.

I have my jeans and t-shirts.

I have my corsets and skirts and plenty of other items that just scream whimsy.

But it’s not socially acceptable, is it?

The last Ren Faire that I went to, I had an amazing outfit.

I, if I do say so myself, looked amazing.

I loved what I was wearing.

We needed to get petrol, so we stopped at a petrol station and whilst my eldest filled the car, I went to grab a couple of drinks and snacks for the two journeys we’d take that day. As we got out of the car, some people in a car on the forecourt saw us, gave each other that nod that means, hey look at that and gave big grins.

I didn’t think twice about walking into the petrol station, and the first person I saw gave me a sneaky side glance.

Obviously they did. I mean, where is the last place you’d expect to see a middle-aged woman wearing a medieval lace-up overdress? If you ask me, 7am on a weekend in a petrol station is not the most obvious place.

You know those double takes that people do in cartoons?

That’s the closest thing I can use to explain what people were doing when they saw me.

And I didn’t care. I knew that I looked good.

So perhaps I was wrong earlier when I said people aren't looking at me.

Sometimes they absolutely are.

But being noticed isn't necessarily the same as being judged.

And even if somebody was judging me, why should their opinion matter more than mine?

Because I loved what I was wearing.

I had the best day at the faire, so many people complimented me on what I was wearing, so many people told me I looked good.

I was so happy.

Or at least, until the next day.

The next day I saw a photograph of me and I realised that the dress I was so pleased wearing the day before? It wasn’t as flattering on me as I had thought.

I could see the way that it gaped over my stomach.

I could see where the corset hadn’t quite cinched me in all the places I thought it had.

I could see the bulges.

These were the bits that I normally hid, made sure that my t-shirts didn’t show.

Made sure that my dresses skimmed over.

Did this change how I'd felt at the time?

Had I been happy in what I was wearing?

Which Pippa was right?

Pippa in the petrol station, at the Ren Faire, thinking that she was flawless?

Or Pippa looking at the photographs afterwards and noticing all the flaws?

Why is it that Pippa looking at the photographs and judging herself is the greater authority on whether I looked good or not?

The photograph hadn't changed anything about the day.

It hadn't changed the compliments I'd received.

It hadn't changed how comfortable I'd been, or how much I'd enjoyed myself.

It hadn't changed the fact that I'd walked into a petrol station at seven in the morning wearing a medieval dress and hadn't given a damn about the double takes.

The only thing that had changed was how I was looking at myself.

And yet I was allowing that later judgement to rewrite how I'd felt.

Which seems a bit ridiculous, doesn't it?

Because I can be self-conscious and still wear the ridiculous outfit.

I can worry about looking silly and still do the silly thing.

I can wonder what people think and still decide I'm having a bloody lovely time, thank you very much.

Let’s make a Venn diagram of clothing.

In the first section are the clothes I like and want to wear. Things like my prints and colours and costumes and things which are my version of funky and whimsy.

In the second section are the clothes that I believe look good on me. Things like the dresses that skim over the lumps and bumps. Things like jeans which flare so I think make my proportions look balanced. Things like my t-shirts with ¾ sleeves.

And in the third section are the clothes that I think are appropriate or acceptable in particular situations. For example, I wouldn’t wear a fancy dress costume to a funeral nor a ball gown to work or on the school run… oh wait! I did do both of those but you know what I mean. I wear black to funerals, I don’t wear jeans to church, I wear Ren Faire costumes to Ren Faires and I wear ball gowns to birthday parties where the invitation specifically requests it.

The thing is, where these three circles cross, the clothes that fit into all three?

It's a very small selection of clothes that I would be left with.

I could wear some of my Ren Faire costume pieces as part of my everyday clothing, but is that appropriate to wear to work? To church? To present? Not really. Even though when I’m on air nobody sees me… but let’s put a pin in that. We’ll come back to that, I think it needs expanding upon.

But now I'm wondering whether these circles are really as separate as I think they are.

Because the clothes I believe look good on me are often the clothes that hide the parts of me I've been taught shouldn't be seen.

And the clothes I think are socially acceptable? Well, who decided what was acceptable in the first place?

Perhaps the problem isn't that the intersection of my three circles is too small.

Perhaps the problem is that I've allowed other people to draw the circles.

Why is there a voice in my head saying, “You can’t wear that. It shows the parts of you that should be hidden”?

Where did I learn that?

Whose voice is that?

And perhaps more importantly, why am I still listening to it?

I think… I think that I’m scared of being judged for being different.

Or maybe for sticking out.

For not being part of the norm.

Which is weird, because I like to wear rainbow dresses and skirts with patterns of cats, and dresses covered in Christmas lights or dinosaurs or classic paintings.

You can’t blend in when you’re wearing those.

That’s the part of me deciding what other people are going to see when they look at me again. Me being me.

And is that the thing?

Do we dress for other people?

I’m not so sure that I do.

On most days, I put thought into what I’m wearing. I choose clothes that are comfortable and suitable for what I’m doing that day.

And… on most days people don’t see me.

So why do I care that I look nice when people won’t see me?

When I’m on the radio, can people see me dressed in my bright-coloured clothing?

Do they see when I’m in my costumes?

Do they see the effort I’ve made?

No.

So, why can’t I just throw on jeans and a t-shirt like Mr PippaD?

Is it because of what changes within me when I wear the funky whimsy clothing?

Do I feel different?

Do I feel more like me?

Do I feel more involved in life?

Do I feel happier?

Do I enjoy sticking out?

Is it because I want people to look at me and think, “There’s a woman who’s got it all together”?

To think, “There’s a woman confident in her body”?

To think, “I wish I could wear that”?

I think that maybe, just maybe, getting dressed isn't just putting on some clothes.

Of course, there are practical things to consider. The weather, what I'm doing, whether I'm going to be comfortable, whether I'm going to spend the entire day pulling my tights up.

But there's so much more going on than that.

There's the person I want to be.

The person I think I should be.

And the person I think everyone else expects me to be.

And somehow, every morning, I'm trying to find an outfit that makes all three happy.

Maybe I don't need to.

Maybe I could spend a little less time worrying about whether my clothes hide the bits of me I think need hiding, and a little more time wearing the things that make me feel like me.

Maybe I don't have to stop being self-conscious before I can start being confident.

Maybe I can be both.

Maybe there is some great deep meaning to all of this, as I've tried to get to the bottom of.

Or maybe, just maybe, I'm just jealous that it takes Mr PippaD under five minutes to get dressed.