I’ve always been an advocate of “dressing for yourself”. Even at my sluttiest, i always eventually settled for the outfit that made me feel best about myself, despite what everyone else was saying. Especially now, when i’m nearing my mid-twenties and am currently in the most stable relationship i’ve had in my life (we just celebrated our fifth year anniversary!), dressing for myself has never been more relevant to me than it is now.
At least that’s what I thought.
So it was after just another casual weekend sleepover with the gang. I obviously should’ve known better than to assume that I would have time to go back home and change before meeting some friends for an early dinner because that’s never the case with adult sleepovers.
So there I was, already half an hour late, with nothing to wear but the pair of booty shorts and an extremely crumpled men’s button-down shirt that I arrived in the day before. The top was fine but the shorts were a different story. The group of friends I was meeting were a fairly conservatively dressed circle and while they wouldn’t judge me, I wasn’t really into showing up looking like I woke up in the wrong bed, if you know what I mean. Because when you feel bangas, you look bangas. People can just tell.
So instead, I showed up in this:
Pants: Arif Zainuddin’s Cara Melayu bottoms in Sky Blue- Pantone shade 638 code “what the fuck was I thinking”
I might as well have gone naked. At this point, the state of my crumpled top was the least of my worries. I swear to God when Bunny and I first discussed my outfit choices, it did not look half as tragic. I’d worn his cara Melayu bottoms to sleep before and they were pretty comfortable so I was confident that any qualms that I had about my outfit choice would be overridden by how relaxed and zen I felt.
I first realized how catastrophic my ensemble was the moment I stepped out of the car and walked into the restaurant and noticed how comfortable and at ease I felt. Almost too comfortable and at ease. And then I looked down at myself and it dawned on me that I LITERALLY looked like an escaped mental patient from RIPAS. It didn’t matter how on-fleek my brows were, nor that my lips were the perfect shade of dirty peach or that I was glowing for the gods. I looked batshit crazy and nothing could save me.
Did i also mention that on the actual day i wore slides? Yeah slides as in, the slippers which walk an extremely thin fine line between Rihanna and pencuci jamban. Like thin as in, breathe-and-you’ll-fall-off-the-edge-and-die kind of thin.
I thought I could hide under the table for the rest of the night but nope. We ended up going to two other cafes that night as well as the mall to pay some bills. Hahahahshit. The looks I got were, to say the least, incredulous.
I felt almost invisible, to be honest. It’s like when someone has just accidentally spat on your face by accident (for Bruneian readers, read: tampias) and the both of you are trying to continue the conversation and ignore the fact that you have a globule of their spit on your nose bridge just to avoid any further embarrassment on both ends. That night, everyone was just trying their best to keep their gazes from the neck upwards and act as if I wasn’t wearing a parachute as pants.
Over the years, I felt like I slowly but surely made the transition into one of those people who value comfort over looking fashion forward. But apparently, that’s not the case because it seems comfort only means something to me when I know I look good and won’t be judged at the same time.
Which begs the question, am i really dressing for myself? Or am i dressing for myself only to the extent where i know other people won’t sneer at my outfit choices? Talk about living within my #fashioncomfortzone.
I learned that it doesn’t matter if I’m wearing the world’s most comfiest taichi pants or Crocs in the most hideous shade of puke yellow, if it’s ugly I might as well be wearing stripper heels and a bodycon dress to an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet. The same way if I were to step out of the house with no makeup on or naked even. Sure, I’d be physically comfortable af in my birthday suit and my pores would thank me for their clogless state but my state of mind would be in tatters within minutes (not to mention the psychological effects on the people who have to witness it).
Long story short, I thought i was one of those smug people who snootily proclaim to value comfort over style. But then I realized that i’m actually pretty shallow and that not looking my best was making me more unsettled than I even thought possible. I was embarrassed and unconfident, despite being very comfortable on the outside. I also felt powerless and too insecure to do anything because I wasn’t dressed the part.
TL;DR: I am superficial af. But for less superficial matters, you can go to CNN.com.
P.S. I don’t really do photoshoots (unless someone asks me to) and you guys should know that Stylesircuit isn’t about editorial-style pictures of myself in different outfits. I’m more of a writer and less of a model. But personally, I was really comfortable during this one since it was more of a parody shoot of my hideous ensemble than a serious one. Credits to Bunnyboo83!