Dressing For It

A friend of mine recently posted on Facebook about men saying that a girl asked for “It”, meaning to be raped, by dressing provocatively.  (He does not believe this sentiment, but made a remark about it) His friends, not all, but some, suggested that women did dress for it, by wearing low-cut tops and short skirts and spandex leggings.  We are all sex maniacs and looking for it everywhere from anyone.

And seriously guys, I’m sick of it.  You ask why we dress this way if we don’t want to get sexed up.  Well here is my reason.

Confidence.  From the time I was old enough to go clubbing I would dress provocatively.  In this area, in the 90’s, a crop top and jeans was sexy.    It wasn’t low cut.  I wore my “uniform” with a flannel shirt, leather jacket, and yes, combat boots.  I know you’re thinking that the outfit definitely isn’t sexy.  Well, apparently it was because I got plenty of offers.  Not just one-night-stand offers, but guys who really wanted to forge a relationship.  At the time I only had eyes for one guy and he knew it and all the other guys were out of luck.  My outfit made me feel good about myself.  Feeling good about myself apparently made me attractive to the opposite sex.  Therefore, I was sexy.

When I worked at a golf course I dressed in shorts and tank tops.  Less is more when you work as a golf cart girl.  Tips are good, even when you are sporting a small B cup.  When the dress code changed and I had to wear longer shorts and a polo shirt, the tips went down.  As much as men want to say we’re asking for sex, we are trying to get ahead in a dick driven economy.  I was trying to make my way through school.  The tips supplemented my hourly wage.  Tips dip, my pocket empties faster.  It’s a man's world, no matter how far women have come.  We still have a long way to go, baby.

Twenty years later I work in an office.  I wear a dress to work.  I wear skirts and tank tops.  I wear tall boots and I wear heels.  I wear a push-up bra.  I’m learning to dress for success.  The clothes I wear are sexy. I don’t look like someone’s over-worked, underpaid mother.  I look like someone that wants to be looked at.  And most days I do.  I want to be noticed because once you aren’t then people think you’re replaceable.  I want to be noticed because isn’t the basest part of us sexual?  I certainly am not planning on jumping anyone’s bones and when I dress for work I do not expect to be raped on my way home.

Someone referred to us as peacocks.  Except in the wild side of peacock land it is the male that presents for the female.  The male that is beautiful while the females are plain.  It’s the male that puts on the show with his pretty feathers – all for sex.  As women, many of us are putting on that pretty show to get ahead, not in bed.  Most of us like pretty, even enjoy it. 

Men scoff and say she was wearing spandex, skin tight, she wants us to look!  Maybe, but I like my pretty spandex.  I look forward to wearing it to work out.  It’s an incentive, an alternative to my baggy, raggy gray shorts.  It hugs my skin, wicks moisture away, and contrary to popular belief – it’s not tight. 

In short, guys, we’re not dressing to get laid.  We dress this way to feel better about ourselves in a world where we are told to be thin, young, smart, ageless, blemish free, carefree, successful, forgiving, motherly, sexy, and anything else you might be able to throw on us.  We do this for us, and occasionally for you.  Sometimes we do go out looking for sex.  We’re human.  It doesn’t mean we want it with you, and it doesn’t mean that just because we are out there you have the right to take it from us. 

It’s funny.  I was raped in my own bed by a friend’s boyfriend.  I had been out that night, came home, closed my bedroom door while they were sleeping in the living room.  I had on a t-shirt and underwear.  I had a blanket over me. 

Considering how I was dressed, I must’ve been asking for it.  

And The Oscar Goes To...

I know all one of you are waiting with baited breath to see how my audition went.  Well, I almost didn’t go.  I was sitting at home and had turned on a movie.  I had just finished vacuuming and washing the floor, when I thought to myself “Why bother?”  It wasn’t like me and a group of friends were going to try out.  I wasn’t letting anyone down by not being there – except myself.  Plus, I don’t think I could make myself do another thing if I did not do this, so I threw on my Emerald Isle sweatshirt and pulled on my Osiris sneakers (my confident “I am me” outfit) and grabbed my keys. 

I got to the audition with a few minutes to spare and walked in looking to see if there was anyone I knew.  There was!  One of the ladies I was in Fiddler with was there as well as the rabbi from Fiddler.  That kind of loosened me up a little.  Plus the piano player from several of the plays I’ve been in was there.  That was comforting because she introduced me to the director as my character from Fiddler.  As you can probably tell, I loved doing “Fiddler on the Roof”.  I really did.

They had us fill out forms with our information on it and what parts we wanted – character, chorus, or both?  I hemmed and hawed because I went for chorus but since I was there I decided to read for a part too.  What could it hurt?  I picked up one of the character’s lines and started reading through so I would be able to read it coherently on stage.  It’s really weird reading a small part of a play that you know nothing about because you have no idea where they are coming from or what they are trying to impart to their audience.  After I read someone else read another character that referenced the one I read and I was like “Ohhhhh, that’s why she sounds the way she does!” 

After I read I had to sing my “go to” song – which is “If I Only Had a Brain” from the Wizard of Oz”.  I think it was pretty good and I belted it out there – which is a big thing in the theatre, since they don’t normally use microphones.  At least in the plays I’ve been in they don’t.  When I finished I went back to my seat and curled myself into the smallest ball I possibly could.  Don’t ask me why.  I know I sang well, and everyone clapped, but for some reason I just get all self-conscious and collapse into myself.

We read a couple more times, trying different characters and then we were done.  Then the waiting began.  I kept checking my email but there was nothing.  All sorts of things went through my head – was the next day’s auditions better?  Was my singing that bad?  What if they don’t get in touch with me at all to even let me know I wasn’t picked?  What if I do get a part? What will I do then?  How can I memorize all that?

A week later, almost to the day, I get a phone call from the director.  She asks me if I would like to be in the chorus.  I tell her yes.  She tells me that practice will probably begin in December sometime.  I tell her ok.  She says she is looking forward to working with me.  I tell her I’m looking forward to being in this play.  We hang up.  I’m super glad that I got in, but a little disappointed I didn’t get a speaking role.  Even if I was offered one I could turn it down, but I didn’t get the chance. I think that’s part of my neurosis, because like I said, I only wanted a chorus part.  I read for a role as a lark.  But part of me…  Well, I guess part of me wants to be a star.  A supporting star, but a star nonetheless.

All in all, it went well and I’m happy to be part of this group.  I’m looking forward to making new friends and working with old ones, and singing and being part of something bigger than the little world I’ve carved out for myself.