I Can't Dress Myself
Goo goo ga ga
I hate my clothes. All of them - every single, individual garment in my wardrobe, chest of drawers or strewn out on the floor by my bed - I can’t stand looking at any of them. And yeah, it’s true that I bought them… nobody forced me to pick the clothes I picked, I’ve got no one to blame but myself, but that doesn’t make me hate them any less. It just makes me hate myself as well.
I think I liked them when I first picked them up in the shop, or added them to my digital basket online - but, even then, I can’t be entirely sure. They always look good in the moment - on the mannequin or hanger. Basically, before they come near my body. I like the idea of them. I like the idea of being the sort of person who could wear an H&M crop top with ‘Saucy Tits’ written on the front, but looking at it in the mirror at home - I realise that, once again, I messed up big-time.
I have a pile of clothes I’ve been thinking I should sell, but I’ll never get around to selling them. Clothes are like cars, in that their value depreciates exponentially once you drive them off the lot. Well, not ‘drive’ them. Wear them. Ok, they’re not really like cars - I don’t know anything about cars, but you know what I’m getting at. What I’m saying is, I have a lot of clothes that I never wear and I can’t be bothered to list them on eBay, so I’ll most probably just end up putting them all in a big, black bin-bag and taking them down to the nearest charity shop.
I have a couple of things that I sort of like to wear - I still wouldn’t say they’re really me but they’re more me than everything else. But that’s only a couple of different things, so I tend to have to keep washing them and then I just end up wearing the same outfits over and over, which gives off the impression that I’m some sort of cartoon character whose creator can’t be bothered to keep redrawing. There’s only so many times you can get away with the ‘...but Einstein wore the same clothes every day!’ excuse. That excuse only really works if you’ve achieved as much as Einstein has. (I haven’t).
I transitioned over 13 years ago, and I used to think that my frustration with clothes was related to the gender dysphoria, but I guess if I’m still having the same issue 13 years on, well - maybe that’s just on me. I hate it when I have a personal issue that I can’t blame on being transgender - it works so well for most things. The realisation that something might be unrelated to it, and be a legitimate personality flaw is really, really irritating.
It isn’t so much that I feel physically uncomfortable in my clothes, it’s more so that I just don’t think they suit me. I have this idea in my head of the kind of style I have, but it’s all theoretical. In practice, I’m much more dull. I know I’m not the only one who feels like this - the personal stylist industry exists for a reason (the other reason is money). Ultimately, I just need someone to tell me what to wear. Heck, I need someone to tell me what to eat and what to watch on streaming services. I need a parent/guardian.
I’m 34 years old, and although I’ve somehow managed to make it look like I know what I’m doing, the truth is - I’m hanging on by the seat of my ugly, misshapen pants here. I’m a big, goofy baby - constantly on the edge of falling out of the carseat. And you probably are too.
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