Redic

As my fantastic friend Stephanie would say, "This is redic." Meaning, in case you don't have the slang or household inhabitant of a twelve-year-old, "This is ridiculous." Twice, in the same week, in the same store, albeit in separate locations, I felt like I was going to cry from sheer self-pity. The weight of an unimportant decision loomed over my head like one of those clouds above some poor self-reflective teenager in an afterschool special. There I am, a level-headed 26-year-old holding two dresses for events that I'll probably never attend, wondering which of the two I should sacrifice to the gods of H&M. Mind you, H&M, a massive retail store who sells very of-the-moment yet budget friendly fashions to fruganistas like moi, has countless replications of these two dresses --- both short, sleeveless, impossibly fitted, and guaranteed to make you the "girl in the [insert bold color here] dress" who has the men flocking. But for some reason, I sit in my dressing room, stand on the store floor, and lean against the mannequinned wall wondering, "Which one do I give up?", as if it's a decision equivalent to choosing Harvard or Princeton (which, I swear, would be much easier, because Harvard is a no-brainer, at least for me).

This wouldn't be so melodramatic if I didn't already have eight other dresses in my closet with the tags on them still (two with more than three years worth of closet-hangingness). And it also wouldn't be so bad if I'd worn the other dozen dresses more than once. But alas, no. I stand in the retail giant trying to argue with myself that no other dresses make a) my rear look as curvaceous and perky, b) my rack look as voluptuous as Kim Kardashian's, c) my body look as balanced as Eva Mendes', and d) my color seem as bright and honey-colored. And, even a week later, I will confess: this is all true. None of my other dresses are as slammin' as these two. But, surprisingly, I fling them back onto the rack in a haste of "This is REDIC" and proceed to the counter with two other, more rational and multifunctional, items that have been hiding under the crook of my arm during my half-hour deliberation. They are a grey sleeveless glen plaid shift dress with a slight cowl neckline and patent leather belt (timeless, yet Mad Men sex appeal) and a black pocketed cardigan with a removable faux fur neckline. It's that effortless chic that Rachel Zoe is always talking about achieving, that I felt I actually could achieve in this item.

I should have walked out triumphant, confident in the fact that I'd bought items that can multitask and withstand the fleeting emotions of fashion. Instead, I felt a pounding in my chest, a pressure behind my eyes, and a jitter in my fingers. It had come like this before. And as I ran to my rental (by the way, yes! My car has been found!) I knew there was only one thing to do: call Stephanie. I was pre-panic attack and I needed a rational, tell-it-like-it-is-in-a-nice-but-firm-way friend at that moment. I was delighted to hear her answer on the third ring, and, after 45 minutes of self-reflection, realized that I'm still that high school girl who thinks that having the right clothes, hair, and makeup will make me successful, as I often imagined the "Elite Four" of the senior class to be. As others present themselves on television to be. As the media, and ordinaries on the streets of Georgetown and U Street, present themselves to be.

The whole process made me feel shallow. And made me wonder what the hell I'm doing with myself. I was the girl who, even though I loved fashion and wished I could afford the Coach bags that several friends in high school flaunted, preferred to dress in "Tees and Timbs" as Justin Eldridge-Otero so succinctly put it, if it meant that I could get a few more books on my shelves and bus fare to open mic nights. WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT GIRL? Psychologists will tell you, "She grew up. And the expectations and preconceptions of the real world set in." I'd prefer to go with what my mama says, "You lost yourself. You spent so much time thinking about what you SHOULD look like instead of BEING who you SHOULD be."

To counteract all of this, I've added a new stipulation to the Unbroke(n) Project: be happy in who I am. I don't know the exact process in going about this, but I do know that it doesn't involve buying dresses I don't have any place to wear them to. Especially when I'll just end up thinking about how I should have just put that money towards a bill. And it'll also involve the release of expectations of others and the embrace of expectations of myself.