The Dressing Debate

Sezane cardigan
Zara jeans (similar)
Dune London mules (similar)
Stella & Dot earrings
Location: Osborne Village – Winnipeg, Manitoba

The first time I put on my favourite black coat after my surgery last fall, I felt strange. I’ve owned that coat for years, and know exactly where each part of it sits on my body. But suddenly it was loose at the top, almost comically so. I remember looking down, wondering if I’d lost a button, until I realised what had changed.

I don’t know what I expected – except maybe that how I felt about my pre-surgery body was all in my head, an emotional reaction to my body as I perceived it rather than an accurate perception of the physical reality of it. As it turns out, it was both. Dressing that body, in spite of how I felt about it, was no different than dressing this one. It’s true that my clothes fit differently now, but they do still fit. Apart from lingerie, I haven’t replaced anything I own with a version in a different size. I’m the same size XS that I’ve always been. That isn’t because my surgery didn’t result in a substantial physical change; it did. But I spent my whole life dressing for the body I wanted, not the body I had.

They say dress for the job you want, not the job you have, and there is some wisdom to that advice. People make judgements based on appearances. You don’t have to like it, but acting like it isn’t reality because you don’t like it serves no one, least of all you. Dressing for a body you want but don’t have is a different thing entirely. Rather than potentially resulting in further professional success, it leads to unnecessary, self-inflicted frustration and heartache most often… not to mention leaving a pile of neglected garments in its wake.

Foremost among my neglected garments, pre-surgery, were my twin Gaspard cardigans from Sezane. When the brand released this cardigan, I instantly fell in love with the versatility of the reversible style and simple cut. But the oversized fit, on my petite by curvy frame, looked frumpy unless I could tuck it into exactly the right bottoms in the exact right way… and then sit down, not moving again until it was time for bed.

When I bought it, I knew that would be a problem. But I loved it, so I bought it, anyway. I did things like that to myself all the time. In fact, with this cardigan I did it twice. Just last summer, before I knew I’d be going in for surgery, I bought it in a second colour, even though I didn’t really like how the first one fit.

I will be the first to say that I think the concept of choosing clothes based on what “flatters” your body shape is absurd and sexist, since beauty standards for women are established almost exclusively by men. Dressing for the opposite sex is a waste of both time and effort. After all, except in very rare cases, members of the opposite sex are primarily interested in what is under your clothes rather than in your clothes themselves. But – but, the fact is we internalise ideas but what is flattering from the time we’re children, no matter how we feel about them intellectually. So even though we can call the concept absurd and sexist, we act on it subconsciously at the same time.

I internalised ideas about how my body should look, which was not the way it did look. And ideas about what garments looked good on the body I did have versus what garments didn’t. None of those ideas were my own; I learned them in magazines and on TV and from observing life around me. They made dressing myself a constant personal conflict. I chafed against the idea that I should be restricted to certain kinds of clothes based on the body I received by genetic accident. I love clothes. It didn’t seem unreasonable that I wanted to wear what I loved, not what I had to show my body to its best advantage. Who made up the rules, anyway? I never knew, but knew they were the rules. Rules are meant to be broken, of course. But I never found a way to break them that felt right.

The whole exercise left me feeling miserable because the clothes I wanted to wear didn’t “flatter” my frame. It doesn’t matter how your clothes look, really. If you don’t feel like they look good, you feel awful in them. Everything is spoiled.

Six months later, my personal dressing debate, which raged for years, is finally over. I dress in clothes I always loved. When I look in the mirror, I feel good about what I see. But the fact that I needed to undergo major surgery to get to this point is not lost on me. I could probably write an entire thesis on the inherent sexism in fashion and the psychological impact it has on womens’ relationship with their bodies.

I could… but I most likely won’t. For now, I’m just enjoying dressing a body that I finally truly feel good in.

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