An Urgent Question

I scream. ZUR HÖLLE MIT DIR. In frustration, I throw my what feels like six hundred fifty fifth clothing item on the floor. The pile is growing at an alarming exponential rate. I’m on my period, I have been in pyjamas all day, and now I can’t find anything to wear. I don’t believe anyone truly doesn’t care about their looks, and I am no exception. In fact, I am always a little suspicious of those who say they don’t. I have heard people say “Looks don’t matter” and “First impressions made within six seconds matter” in one breath. I mean, that’s almost paradoxical. What do you notice within the first six seconds of seeing someone new? Certainly not the complexity of their soul. It doesn’t make sense. I look at the watch. 19:40. Five minutes. With a breath release that could probably blow away my closet, I let myself fall into the soft, lavender fragrant hill. I feel my muscles decontract, and I surrender to the muffled silence of cloth in my ear.

“How about the jeans shorts? They’re pretty. And appropriate. Apart from that, they don’t have paint stains like those horrible jeans of yours.”

Instinctively I reply, “I am sorry. Absolutely not. Have you seen the forecast? It’s twelve degrees outside and have you seen the…” Wait. One second. Where did that nasal, wheedling voice come from? It’s almost as if… no, but that can’t be. Clothes don’t come to life. It just doesn’t happen. Suddenly, an arm, or so it seems, breaks through the pile. I hear a high pitched tone, probably the sound of my own squeak. Only then I notice it is not an arm - it’s an empty sleeve.

“No need to be so surprised, young lady. We are at your service here. And no, the shorts are a terrible idea, they are way too cold. And besides, no offense - they make you look like a nun. Have some fun! How about your new pants? They make your ass look cute.” This voice is different. More squeaky. Annoying.

Indignantly I flare up. The arm retreats.

“You cannot say that! Who even are you?”

“Just a little outlier of your brain, dearie. Everything we say here is a thought that has crossed your mind before. And you cannot tell me that you don’t like looking good.”

“Don’t listen to my colleague. She only cares about your looks and nothing else. These pants aren't safe! They are almost begging for looks and comments. Or even worse things, if you know what I mean.”

I shake my head. Did I hear her correctly? I feel a wave of feminist impulses rising in me.

“You are even worse! My clothes don’t send any messages. They don’t invite or send anything - they would have to be able to talk to do that, haha …  I mean. Usually. But in any case, does my brother ever worry about being safe? My cousins? They walk around shirtless, for Christ’s sake. And I can’t even wear normal jeans anymore? Gosh. Stupid chauvinistic world.”

“YASSS! GET IT! You can walk around with your boobs out and you would still not be asking for it. And to you, safety department: how dare you say something so outrageous to a notorious feminist?”

“It is not outrageous. I am just concerned about your safety, darling. And I agree with you; it’s not fair. Absolutely not. But right now, it is the reality, and you achieve nothing by bringing yourself into unnecessary danger. You always walk faster when you are in a dark street, the only living human apart from another man… Don’t tell me you are never scared at night. Don’t tell me you don’t make a detour  to not have to go through the park when it’s dark out. Society just isn’t there yet.”

“Which is exactly why she has to fight it! She shouldn’t be disprivileged because she has a non-male gender.”

“She shouldn’t, but unfortunately she is!”

“And you are not willing to do anything about it! Take the mini skirt, Ava.”

“No no no, absolutely no way. The turtle neck is definitely the best choice.”

“Is she a turtle? Take the tank top!”

“Didn’t you say it was cold out? Your mother’s long coat!”

“Yoga Pants!”

“Skirt down to your ankles!”

“Leggings!”

“A long robe!”

“A bikin..”

The clock moves to 19:45, and suddenly there is - silence. The arm, or better said the sleeve, that was just outstretched in an almost aggressive manner, drops. I grab it. Throw it up. It falls down again. The pile of clothes is just a pile of clothes again. With a sigh, I grab loose pants and a sweater. The supermarket closes in a few minutes. I can solve the question of empowerment or safety another day.

Dandrea, Amanda. Dress Codes, Slut-Shaming, and the Male Gaze. 25 Nov. 2013.