I Am The Worst Dressed Person Here

Annie Spratt

I can’t really remember a time when I felt comfortable in clothes. That isn’t to say I’m someone who is, like, supportive of the human body and all for nudity all the time or whatever—if it were up to me, everyone would be wearing as many layers as possible at all times and also (unrelated to clothing, but equally important) would leave me alone.

I wore a uniform for most of my life, but when my family first moved back to the states when I was 8 and I went to public school for three years, my favorite article of clothing to flaunt around on a regular basis was a turtleneck with dogs printed on it. I would wear it every Friday as a bizarre little treat for myself. It was fucking weird and honestly was serious foreshadowing for how I would dress myself for the rest of my life.

Everything about fashion is embarrassing to me. I never get why shopping is always made out to be this great passion for all women; like this activity that turns us into these wild and competitive sharks, where our eyes roll back into our skulls and our jaws dislodge as we obsessively try on hundreds of outfits and shoes. I legitimately feel like an alien if I’m getting ready to go somewhere with friends and they ask me to choose which top looks best on them. Both are fine, wear both of them. Am I bad at being a woman?

I think we should all just wear one outfit all the time and be done. Preferably in black, because it hides food stains, and with deep pockets.

My hatred of shopping and clothing is not a source of pride. My mother is convinced that I feel this way deliberately to ruin her life. My little sister, who literally works at a clothing store, thinks I do it to be intentionally difficult and different. She says “different” with a sneer.

I find it funny when people jump to the conclusion that I don’t care because I must think that I’m better than everyone else, rather than I just literally don’t know how to dress myself. I wore a mandatory wool kilt for seven years and LOVED IT but nobody told me about hemlines and necklines and tailoring and what my proper bra size even was until I was 18.

I am almost always the worst dressed person in almost any room. I really like to wear baggy men’s shirts and I like tall socks and I’ve been wearing the same grey sneakers for years. One time my coworker and I wore the exact same outfit into work by coincidence—except he is a 10 foot tall man and was dressed appropriately, and I was wearing a shirt that I think once belonged to my brother and the one pair of black pants I own.

I am always incredibly comfortable and content and never second-guess anything when I put it all together, but I look like a walking trainwreck. Dress for the job you want. A guy I was seeing for a while used to actually scream when I’d get dressed. Scream.

I have no idea where it comes from. Aren’t clothes supposed to be a reflection of who you are? Or who you think you are? In that case, I can’t help but think like, oh shit, maybe my subconscious is ahead of me and knows I’m not that great.

I do have a paralyzing fear of people knowing that I’m trying really hard. Which, frankly, is pretty ridiculous because I am constantly working hard to be this average. I had a therapist who once told me that if I dressed better, maybe I’d feel better, and I temporarily lost vision over how completely infuriating that idea is to me.

I’m just selective of what parts of me I’d like people to see and when you dip under the curtain and see that I’m operating 1000000 mph to achieve this objectively small accomplishment, I become traumatized, and then make you promise not to tell anyone that I’m trying. I don’t want the curtain to give away that I’m trying. It’s all a little secret, comfortably hidden behind a red striped t-shirt dress that two different people in my life have told me to set on fire and never wear again. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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