Closet Existentialism

On Thursday I had a wedding.

Don’t like them. They’re noisy, packed, impersonal, pretentious and showy. And watching the sweat-drenched attendees wriggle and dance themselves dizzy, all the questions of “Why are we here? Who made the world?” come rushing into my head.

It’s safe to say I haven’t attended a wedding that I liked in years.

But this was a good friend’s and I’d promised myself that I have to at least make an appearance to friends’ weddings or no one will show up in mine (if I ever have one!) So that was that, and I decided I’m in this time.

But it wasn’t that easy of a decision. For a whole week before the wedding, the question would cross my mind. It would bring back memories and horror stories, and I know I’d been avoiding it for a while. It haunted me, but every time it did, I would kick it back into the back of my head, thinking to myself, “I will sort it out tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll sleep peacefully. Tomorrow, I’ll think, I promise.”

The question? … What to wear?

Please, before you judge or jump to conclusions; I’m the last girl to care too much about clothes and appearances. Well, at least I was that last girl until a year or two ago, right before I secretly decided that I’d like (or at least I’d like to pretend I’d like) to be choosier in what I don every morning or evening before I set foot outside of the house.

But every time I open my closet to check out the mismatched pieces of fabric inside, I’m faced with the horrible truth: I have nothing to wear.

Weddings used to make me sad, because they were reminders of a rather lacking and modest wardrobe

And I know all girls say that, but me, I, moi? I promise you, I really, really don’t have anything to wear. Or let me be more plain and correct here (since we can all safely assume I don’t go out naked): I have nothing decent to wear.

Not wedding-material at least (and I’m talking about the clothes, not me). As I looked at my closet (packed with trousers, all black, desert scarves, weird tops, muhajabat clothes, two sleeping bags, two or three pairs of washed-out jeans and did I mention the black trousers?), I thought about all those chances I had in London all throughout last year and before during trips to Italy, Beirut or Dubai to pack my bags and in turn wardrobe with some nice dresses that would make me look classy in a party (or at least not bring shame to my family and illicit weird looks from my friends’ friends). And how I wasted every chance.

Why? Body issues. I think part of me always thought I don’t deserve nice dresses. I remember that during shopping, I always found it a joy to pick and choose for my younger sister. And if she wasn’t with me on a trip, I’d do the job like a good sibling, and choose for her. She always loved my taste, I was a bit adventurous (read eccentric) in my choices and I loved to mix chic and boho. Sometimes, I secretly wished I was thin myself so I’d have enough room to maneuver in choosing my own clothes, instead of opting for whatever that hides my curvature and all those flaws that my eye immediately catch whenever I but glimpse my reflection in a mirror.

I can safely say I’ve lost some good weight, and fingers crossed (and mouth shut) I intend to lose more. This time, I’m intent on reaching my ideal weight and the look that will make me confident (since I did reach a point where I felt tired of being embarrassed by that ‘vessel’ that carries me around everywhere). But with the weight loss, I lost both kilos and half of my wardrobe; some clothes just look funny on me now.

So what did I end up doing this time? I waited till the morning of the wedding, decided I wasn’t going to panic, and instead act professionally. Those memories of similar situations (the tears before weddings where I was convinced I looked fat and “bee2a”, all the times I blamed my parents for my lack of fashion sense, all those party photographs where I looked like The Laughing Cow, the painful hunt from a prom and later graduation party dress) were pushed back, supressed, buried deep down, and set fire to. Those times are gone, I told myself.

First, I raided my sister’s wardrobe. Well, she carried some extra weight herself a couple of years back, and surprisingly I did find two dresses that looked alright and fit. But just to have more choices (acting professionally makes you demanding and haughty considering a day earlier I was completely desperate), I made emergency phone calls to my friends. I actually went as far as texting one of my sister’s best friends who’s a sucker for party wear and has a wide variety. My message was brief: “I need a dress for a wedding. Something black.” Before she had a chance to respond, I followed with another text: “I lost weight btw.” It was essential. For her, so she would know I can actually now fit into her dresses. For me, as an extra reassurance that I’m on the road to change whatever I hated (had issues with/felt insecure about) in myself.

Me is not written in stone. Me is an evolving thing, something that I have yet to discover, not something that I carry around or is bound to forever. Last year, I was the girl with major self-destructive body issues. Last Thursday, I was still insecure but with less weight on my hips I ended up with at least six dresses to choose from, all fit me and all looked alright. I painted my toes flaming red, wore my high-heeled sandals (instead of opting for the ballerinas as I always would) and I walked tall -mainly because of the heels- and proud (a teeny tiny bit). But it’s not because of who I am now, but because of the potential I felt I had in me.

Of course, all those fluffy inner-power love-yourself-for-who-you-are-blah-blah feelings are not permanent, they come and go. And I do end up sometimes in a puddle on the floor crying my eyes off because of the “long way ahead of me.” (I’m 3kilos away from my ideal weight, height minus 100 and all that. But I’m like 10-15 kilos away from my ideal look). I knew that, but I decided to indulge in the good feelings as they lasted, savour those moments that make me want to invest in my body and my self more.

The next day it was my sister’s best friend’s engagement party – yup, the same girl I called for help. And I had to be there – axing my travel plans for the weekend. And I dressed up again, and I conjured up all those me-myself-and-I-powers again and I ventured out there, making mental photographs of all those dresses that made me drool …

… Yup, I have decided I deserve nice dresses too, for a change. And you know what? I even have a folder on my laptop now titled “Being a girl project.” Yes, the nerd is me is taking the “beauty project” very seriously, with folders, notes, research, pictures and one big fat plan to make me thin.

And let the blogosphere be my witness, I will be (insha’Allah).

Ah, and that wedding? It was awesome! College mates who haven’t seen me for two or three years or so noticed the weight loss, to my delight. Those who haven’t seen me since college noticed the lack of the headscarf :S But it was all much fun. So was the engagement.

Good times, I tell ya. Good times.

And I’m not even sure whether it’s the times that are changing. Or is it just me.

Listening to: Girl, All My Loving, Hey Jude, Hold My Hand, by the Beatles (duh!)
Mood: Thankful

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