Most mornings, my roommate and I get ready together.
I waltz into her room with outfit options, stopping in front of her mirror to glare at them as I hold them up to my body. She watches me cycle through more articles of clothing than Cher from Clueless, listening as I find something to criticize in every single one.
I once told her that if I’m unhappy with what I’m wearing, the day is ruined. She didn’t understand what I meant — even though I recognized how frivolous it sounded, my mind would jump to a dozen potential catastrophes.
If I don’t iron my shirt, the friend of a friend I run into at the grocery store will think I’m a slob. My socks don’t match, so my aunt’s cousin will realize that my life is falling apart. There’s a loose thread in my sweater, so I’m the worst person to walk the Earth, right?
I never could convince myself that no one gives a fuck, which usually resulted in my outfits not being suited for the occasion.
“What are you all dressed up for?” was a phrase that I became accustomed to hearing, especially in high school. Instead of leggings and hoodies, I opted for tailored pants, perfectly pressed blouses and dangling earrings. As a finishing touch, I’d throw on floral Fluevogs or platform Mary Janes — I’d also forget to bring a change of footwear and promptly became every PE teacher’s worst nightmare.
A more confident person might take the question as a source of pride, but to me, it was humiliating.
I was always a shy kid who wasn’t the best at understanding social cues, so I struggled to form relationships. Initiating interactions myself was entirely out of the question. I was always the odd one out at summer camps and sat on the periphery of elementary school friend groups.
Since I didn’t know how to properly engage with other people through speech, I decided to communicate through clothing instead. I could translate all my ideas and feelings in a more subtle way, one that did not require me to use my words.
It backfired. Being too dressed up — and as a consequence, standing out — was the last thing I wanted. Not only did I feel out of place, I looked the part too.
The worst part of overdressing was that everyone could see how much thought and effort I had put into deciding how I would present myself to the world, only to still get it all wrong. I envied girls who felt at ease in sweats, who carried themselves with a casual coolness beyond my understanding.
I was caught in a loop of wanting to try hard but not too much; blend in, yet draw just the right amount of attention. I didn’t want to come off as lazy, but worried just as much about seeming uptight or pretentious.
At some point, I decided I’d had enough. I tried to embrace my sense of style but started being critical of myself in an entirely different way. I didn’t believe I had anything to say that would spark someone’s genuine interest in getting to know me, so I relied on my outfits to do the heavy lifting.
Then I discovered a new social skill to add to my toolbox: Compliments.
If I wore something that people felt drawn to comment on, I’d have a surefire reason for people to want to talk to me. And if people did that, I wouldn’t look lonely — the illusion I’d created of being integrated in my environment’s social fabric wouldn’t burst at the seams.
A compliment is reliable and straightforward. I wouldn’t have to enter a social situation I wasn’t prepared for or decipher social rules that I didn’t understand, since the conversation that followed was always the same. They would ask me where I got an article of clothing, I’d answer (usually with “I don’t remember, sorry,” or “I thrifted it!”) and that would be all. No room to slip up.
Not only did I master the art of receiving compliments — I gave them out like candy. Whenever I wanted to talk to someone, I would tell them how much I liked something they were wearing. Though my observations came from a place of honesty, something still felt incomplete. I’d leave with the satisfaction of having survived another encounter but with the aching desire to truly connect with someone.
But what could I possibly do instead?
How could I — someone who loved everything and everyone with a bit too much intensity — talk about my interests without scaring people off? If I made it clear that I wanted to be friends, would they think I was desperate? Lonely?
Unfortunately, all the things I couldn’t bring myself to say were my ticket to what I actually wanted — the substance I couldn’t achieve with a single compliment, no matter how genuine.
As I’ve grown up, I’ve learned more about how to make friends. Part of that came from understanding more about myself and the way that my brain works; enhancing the qualities that made me interesting, rather than repressing them and attempting to fit myself into an impossible mould.
I still think about colours, shapes and textures. I still put time into crafting an outfit. My consolation is that it’s less of an obligation now, leaning further towards personal enjoyment.
While I often still dress up, I can also put on a silly graphic t-shirt (burgundy tie-dye with dinosaurs on the front… it’s truly hideous) and not feel as anxious, because I know that it would never make my friends think less of me. And because they have my back, I face the rest of the world with just a bit more certainty.
Though seemingly insignificant, to me, this is a sign that there was never something wrong with me — I just had to wait for the right people to appreciate what I have to offer, inside and out.
This article is a part of The Ubyssey's 2023 creative non-fiction supplement, beauty.