Wearing clothes when everything is terrible
On the power and privilege of not getting dressed
Welcome to the Esther Studio newsletter! I’m Carly, PhD, a marketing professor and artist living in the Midwest. I like talking about personal style, and I spend a lot of time making jewelry. Keep reading and consider subscribing so we can see more of each other!
There’s a lot of space on the internet devoted to the idea of clothing as armor - the notion that clothing can prepare us for the daily battles we face in society. It’s a concept I firmly believe in, and one that suits women particularly well. In an often cruel world that judges us based on our gender and appearance, our clothing choices can help rally us to take up space.
I feel this idea every day. I can wear heels to teach undergraduates and notice that my posture changes to reflect pride and confidence. I can iron a crisp white shirt and feel ready for anything. Don’t even get me started on the power of red lipstick!
Looking back, I can see clearly that I’ve created an entire work wardrobe around the idea of clothing as armor. However, like anything, there is a limit to this line of thinking. Despite my belief that clothing is armor, if this horrific week in American politics has taught me one thing about style, it’s that clothing is also comfort.
Our election was on a Tuesday. By Wednesday morning, I was in shock, sitting bleary-eyed behind my desk at work, consoling a line of students. By Thursday, I was not fit to participate in society. I crawled back into bed mid-morning after canceling a meeting and both my classes. For this occasion, I wore a t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and socks. I huddled under my duvet and weighted blanket, chilled despite the many layers of fabric. I fell asleep and didn’t wake up for several hours, at which point it felt like I had been asleep for days. In that moment, the darkness around me felt like a cocoon. I could have stayed there all day, my dog pressed tightly against my leg, snoring softly. In a strange way, it was very nice.
Peeling back my bedding, I padded into my home office and sat down at my computer. Work from the day was piling up - emails and a now-unnameable list of responsibilities. I can’t remember what I did for three hours at my computer that day. At the time, it seemed important, and I suppose it was. It kept my mind and hands occupied. It also kept me off social media (albeit intermittently) and reminded me that I have a role to play in whatever comes next, so I can’t disappear completely.
I didn’t leave my house that day. My sleep clothes were my outfit, and they were the best clothes I could have chosen for my mood and what it demanded. Clothing is armor, yes, but clothing is also comfort.
The power and privilege of not getting dressed
This experience of mid-week hibernation has to mean something. Or, rather, I have to make it mean something.
On one hand, I am cognizant of the well-worn and almost clichéd importance of self care during tough times. But I think there’s more to it this week. As I slowly return to society - this weekend I somehow made it to the grocery store, the gym, and the craft store - I am physically and emotionally aware that my energy right now is limited. If I, and we, don’t properly look after ourselves right now (and for the next four years) we simply don’t stand a chance at neutralizing these vicious political forces. To sit back for a minute, an hour, a day, or however long it takes isn’t selfish - it’s necessary.
On the other hand, I’m almost embarrassed by my privilege. As a salaried worker with a ludicrous level of control over my schedule, I was able to back off of public-facing work this week with relative ease. Eventually, I have to return to the classroom and do more than answering emails, but to take a few days to simply cope was a gift I know most people cannot afford. My heart aches for those who are just as wiped out as I am but can’t take a break.
I am also aware that as a white, affluent, married, straight-passing person, I am not a target for the worst of what is to come. This doesn’t mean I can’t or shouldn’t feel grief and horror right now, it just means it all comes with a ‘but.’ I can feel whatever I need to feel, but I have to use this privilege wisely when my batteries are charged.
For me, I know this means wearing clothing as armor. It means showing up on campus ready to help my students through whatever they’re feeling, and to continue lecturing about tough topics that I know may be deeply unpopular among a certain set of students. For these moments, I know lipstick can’t make me feel safe or happy, but it just might make me feel ready.