Clothes Make a Statement--but Who Do You Think Is Listening?
A friend asks: “Why don’t you discuss the age-old question: Do men and women dress for themselves or each other? I get irritated every time I read about that topic. I’d like to see you guys settle it once and for all.”
Well, we don’t know about once and for all, but we’d sure like to settle it.
SHE: What I wear depends on the day, the time, who’s going to be watching and my goals for the outfit. I’ll admit it: Most of the time I use clothing to send a message.
At work, I wear something conservatively chic. The message: Take me seriously, please . When I’m at play, I’ll throw on something fun and a little sexy. The message: Don’t take me too seriously.
But all of this is for me--a thing I do to fulfill some vague fantasy about how my life should be.
HE: I’m going to go very far out on a very short limb and pretend I speak for men when I say that I dress almost exclusively to please myself. When I’m choosing, say, a sport coat, I don’t look at it in the three-way mirror and immediately wonder whether women will love it.
I think, first, does it fit? Second, does it fit perfectly? Third, does it look good on me in my eyes? I take more latitude with casual clothes, but they still have to suit me first.
A few people find that attitude narcissistic. It isn’t meant to be. I just feel that you can make yourself crazy--and you also run the danger of looking pretty foolish--if you get hooked into anticipating other people’s tastes.
SHE: I also dress for myself first . And that brings me back to my fantasy. For some reason, I always feel like I’m living my life inside of a movie. The “Sleepless in Seattle” line “you just want to be in love in a movie” really hit home with me. I idealize and romanticize every day, every hoped-for experience. More than once, my husband has accused me of living in a dream world. I think he’s right. It’s my nature. My clothes are my costumes for the roles I play.
HE: I used to laugh up my sleeve at that “clothes make the man” stuff, but no more. I don’t necessarily like the fact that we live in a society with defined classes (‘tain’t supposed to be that way, but it is), but if you expect to move freely among and between them, you’ve got to know something about the uniform.
I’ll wear a cowboy shirt and hat if I absolutely have to, but like you, I know I’m playing a role. I know it’s not me under there. When I wear a dark business suit around friends, they don’t know whether to be impressed or to fall down in tears of laughter. Again, a role.
But in each case, I still want to pick clothes that please me (as far as that’s possible with a cowboy shirt). There’s nothing worse than paying actual money for clothes you feel uncomfortable in but that you think will impress others. It never works. If you squirm, your clothes automatically look like hell.
SHE: If a man told me what to wear, asked me to dress to please him, I’d tell him to take a flying leap. I cannot stand men who give women guidelines on what they may or may not wear in their presence. Excuse me, bub, but your ego is showing.
On the other hand, if a man I respect compliments me on how I look, there’s a good chance I’ll wear the ensemble again.
But men, take note: A woman likes a compliment on how she looks more than one aimed at an item she is wearing. She is supposed to wear the clothes; they shouldn’t wear her.
HE: The ol’ subtle suggestion might go a long way here, to wit: “You know, I think you’d really look good in (bright red; a crew-neck sweater; argyle socks; Cleveland).” The real message might be “You look like 300 pounds of wet mice in that sack you’ve got on,” but what the other person interprets is “Yeah, I just plain look good in anything, don’t I?”
SHE: When I was a little girl, I dressed for my loving mom. When I was a schoolgirl, I dressed for the nuns (uniforms, you know). When I was a teen-ager, I dressed for the other girls and the guys I hoped would lend me their varsity letter jackets. Now I’m a woman and I dress for me.
HE: Then can I have your letterman’s jacket?
Actually, there’s a male side to that age/fashion hierarchy: When you’re a little boy, your mom dresses you. When you’re a schoolboy, your mom still dresses you. When you’re a teen-ager, conventional teen-age wisdom (read: idiocy) dresses you.
When you’re a man, your wife or girlfriend or (God help us) mom try desperately to dress you, but you must rebel. You alone must try, fail, and try again until you get it right. Women generally have good clothing sense where men are concerned, but you must forge a fashion identity on your own. Listen, smile, nod, thank them. They love you.
Then if you want to go out and buy snakeskin cowboy boots and black leather pants, go out and buy snakeskin cowboy boots and black leather pants. Just don’t come home.
