Don’t let the dress trick you.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a girly girl. When convention dictated that I receive multiple Barbie dolls for my 5^th birthday, I much preferred to play with my cousin’s Ninja Turtle action figures.* I didn’t start wearing make-up until college, and the only reason I know my way around a liquid eyeliner applicator is because my little sister schools me. And perhaps most fundamental to a girly girl, I lack the sort of feminine wiles that attract men, potentially due to my colorful use of the English language that comes from being raised in New Jersey; in Jersey-speak: I got no game. I’ve always just been one of the boys.

And yet, my appearance hasn’t ever reflected this observable facet of my personality. That, too, is my responsibility. Because as soon as I was old enough to pick out my own clothes, I chose to wear dresses. And I adored my dresses. Whether they were brought from India or the local K-Mart, I wore them until they were threadbare and loved. And I wore them to every occasion I could, in as inclement weather as I could get away with. My parents were graciously accommodating, and there were many summer nights I wore my dresses out in the rain, and many fall days where I happily sauntered to school in them.

Everyday clothing notwithstanding, as a moon among stars, there was The Dress. The Dress was much more than what it appeared to others; it seemed to be both a physical manifestation of everything I’d hoped to be, and protective armor shielding me from the world’s evils, which included angry neighbors, unfriendly dogs and childhood injuries. And like me, The Dress was dynamic, adapting to reflect my needs and desires. I was 4, in a new country with new language to learn, and it came to me in the form of a frilly pink thing, a hopeful promise. The next year, it returned more confidently as a chic black and white polka-dotted A-liner I wore proudly to my very first graduation. As I grew taller in spurts, The Dress came to me again as a comforting cool blue and white striped cotton dress with thick straps that buttoned at my shoulders.

Instead of coaxing out lady-like manners buried deep within me, The Dress succeeded in making me feel empowered to do as I wanted, and I passed my youth mining for worms in the schoolyard, wrestling with friends, and climbing the Everest-like roofs of my development. Among my childhood friends, I was the bold one, the fearless adventurer. All while wearing The Dress or one of its sisters.

But as I grew older, the power of The Dress grew less. Looking back at old photographs, I sometimes feel its loss, although at this point it’s clearly healthier that I don’t place feelings of hope and self-worth into a garment. But there are those pieces of clothing that make me feel sensational when I step into them:

What: black and white polka dot dress, green cardigan, leggings, rainboots.

Defining moment(s):

That time in Paris.

Seeing the look on my old undergrad professor’s face (who I recently dated briefly) when I walked by him in the department and thinking, sucks for you.

What: vintage skirt, green tank top, brown wedges

Defining moment(s): That night that turned into morning in the city.

What: gopi dress, flip flops

Defining moment(s): Those days in my youth I felt close to God.

I know I give a certain feminine impression at first glance. I dress a certain way, and take interest in garments in that I like to sew and knit occasionally. But if you take a closer look, you’ll see a woman who would prefer to discuss the physics of fluid dynamics over diet tricks, who would rather play a game of two-hand touch football than go shopping at the mall, and whose never used the excuse ‘because I’m a girl.’

If you’re smart, you won’t let The Dress trick you.

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*He even had Be-bop and Rocksteady!

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