Dressing Up Is Over Rated

Sometime back—as in years now—I passed through the interval of time where I actually carried within me the “female” penchant to dress up, to “look good” in that notice me kind of way.  Confession . . . I haven’t purchased an actual dress in over a decade.  Granted, I occasionally experience a time travel moment backwards:  Four years ago I bought a pair of stilettos.  Except for a wedding and one or two church attempts, those shoes have resided in their box on a top closet shelf.  A month ago I examined the current state of false eyelashes and the application thereof.  NOPE, not going to happen!

At my school, the Korean teacher—who is Korean, by the way—is somewhat intrigued with me. . . maybe first of all because we are of the same generation, and she checked that fact out, too.  Koreans consider all kinds of questions polite American society would deem “personal” or “inappropriate” as fair conversation starters even with people you meet for the first time!  (I play coy, though, with her and others who ask, and I do not divulge my age, weight, etc., except in blurry general terms.)  And maybe second of all because I am more physically active than many others of “our generation” at school, and I’m not considered “fat.”  When I first arrived in Seoul, she was married, but she has since divorced.  Now she works with a trainer regularly, has the body to show for it, and she is an awesome dresser, to include footwear with noticeable height.  Kindly—but I totally know what she’s up to—she scrutinizes my appearance any time we chat at a break time or a meeting and offers positive reinforcement for anything she believes could rally me to a fuller consciousness, acceptance, and implementation of “looking good.” 

“You are a good looking woman,” she says.  “Show off what you have,” she admonishes.

So, pretty much I wear pants, and about half the time those pants are jeans. But in my defense, they are usually black jeans!  And I wear flats, or Uggs when it’s cold and nasty, or athletic shoes but mostly only on Friday.

Not sure what came over me, but this past Wednesday I wore a skirt—you don’t even need all the fingers on one hand to count the number of times I have worn a skirt this school year—and hose, and Frye leather boots with an inch and a half heel.  (My hair has looked amazingly good for the past two weeks, and I have no idea why because I have not done a thing different with it, but Wednesday it was still behaving.)  She was ecstatic!

Me—not so much.  When all the students had exited the classroom at the end of the school day, I collapsed in my cushioned chair at my desk and did not arise until my legally contracted departure time.  Before heading home, I had to make a commissary run, and, the truth is, I was not as invisible as I usually am while engaging in this endeavor.  Two different geezers—okay, they were probably of my generation—both with wedding rings, I might add, chatted me up, and there was more eye contact and glances of appraisal than the norm from work staff and other patrons.

Not enough to instill any motivation for me to change my ways, though!  Before I could even put away my freezer goods when I arrived home, I had to strip down.  I could scarcely bear to have any of those clothes on me anymore.  Although I had major grading to complete, my recovery entailed a full evening appareled in pajamas while sprawled on the couch with popcorn, Diet Coke, and Netflix.

Dressing up is over rated.