Why I Don't Like Dresses

I was raised in an age people like to think of as “simpler times,” where life was so much better.

Well, every age has its good and its bad, but let’s be clear: I was raised in the late ‘50s and the ‘60s, a time of racism, sexism and negative stereotypes of every ethnicity you weren’t. Life was fine if you knew your place in the hierarchy.

I was indoctrinated with the notion that for the female of the species, the two most important traits were to be pretty and to be obedient. It was all well and good (and in my family, expected) if one did well in school. My career choices (which were never nurse, secretary, sales clerk or teacher – the only choices for a decent woman in those days) were smiled at, but never taken seriously. If I wanted to sing, I could sing in church. If I wanted to write, I could keep a diary. But when I said I wanted to be an actor – and I was forcefully told the word was actress – I was vehemently discouraged and told that only women of questionable character would do something so unwholesome. In view of the “Me Too” movement, my parents were justified in being concerned with my career choice. But let’s not blame the women. They weren’t the ones with the power.

TV and movies were full of examples of a woman’s “place”: in the home, married and raising lots of babies. Wanting a career – until you married, when you put such childish things aside, at least until the children were raised – was fine as long as it was an appropriate career. But do not lose focus. The message was, what’s important is finding a man.

Throughout my early childhood, any time we went out somewhere special – Mass on Sunday, visiting the relatives, or going shopping in the city – I was made to dress in my Sunday best – what my mother jokingly referred to either as “Sunday-go-to-meetin’” clothes or “glad rags.” (And yes, play clothes were “sad rags”.) This was the norm for girls in those days: Frilly dress, scratchy petticoat, dress shoes, possibly a bow in one’s hair, a hat, dress coat and gloves. A child’s handbag, often matching mother’s on a small scale, held said gloves once inside, rosaries, possibly chap-stick and a fancy handkerchief.

My mother added to my adornment with ankle socks with lace edges or flowers embroidered on the cuffs, and underwear with rows of lace across the bottom – what I call child-molester pants because, for what earthly reason should anyone be encouraged to look at a little girl’s bottom?

How I envied my brothers in their trousers and suitcoats. I would have even worn a tie if only I could have worn trousers instead of an itchy dress.

As my mother combed and arranged my curls, she would tell me I wanted to look pretty when I went out. I was young and impressionable. Pretty girls on TV got everything. Ugly girls were just contemptable, if not evil.

So, out I obediently trudged, waiting to be pretty. At church I was rarely acknowledged, the seen-but-not-heard. At my grandparents’, my grandmother would say in a tone that often sounded like she was scolding me, “Well, don’t you look nice?”

I thought nothing more of it, since she said it once to include the three of us, and my brothers weren’t expected to be pretty.

Then on one occasion after we were already there, in scampered one of my cousins. My slender cousin who had honey blonde hair, the bluest eyes, and long dark eyelashes. “Well, don’t you look pretty?” said the same grandmother.

I was dark haired, with grey eyes, skinny arms and legs and a chunk body. I was the obedient child, so no one knew I existed. My cousin was pretty.

I knew, even then, I probably had no chance of ever being married. That was fine with me. That wasn’t really on my bucket list, especially if it meant I couldn’t be an actor.

People often assumed that, simply because one is female, one wants children. Well, no. I think my first and most continuous lie was, “Yes, someday. I guess.”

I had dolls – lots of dolls – but that’s because I had no friends. There were no girls my age in my neighborhood, and I was not allowed to play with boys (but then, I wasn’t quite as obedient as they thought). Girls were a year or two older or a year or two younger. That’s huge when you’re little. I gravitated toward the younger ones until they excluded me. They were easier to deal with.

I didn’t think like the other girls. I wasn’t interested in what interested them. My classmates wanted to marry Paul McCartney. I wanted to be Paul McCartney. And I didn’t have the social skills to navigate long-term friendships.

So, dolls played a significant role in my life as the friends who didn’t fight with me. I didn’t treat them in a maternal way as I carried them by the neck or the leg.

Barbie and Ken had all the freedom to do the things I could only imagine.

My doll house was my experiment in landscape architecture and interior design.

I was actually envious of cousins who didn’t have a doll house but only the people and the furniture. They had a piece of furniture that was a series of compartments to put their shoes in. They’d empty it and use it as an apartment complex. Imagine what I could’ve done with that!

And then I reached an age where I was taught how babies came into existence. I recoiled in horror. How could anyone embrace that or anything to do with it? My reaction was, “Eww! Why would anyone want to do that to their body? (I was taught about reproduction with no mention of sex.) I was having none of that!

I slammed into puberty a few years ahead of my peers, and decades ahead of my emotional readiness. While most of my peers were blissfully flat with bodies of a shape that gave no hint to gender identity, I was bulging out in ways that horrified me. While the hippies were burning their bras, I was being fitted for one. My peers didn’t yet have to worry about a visit from a “friend” that was now my nemesis.

If I complemented a friend about how lucky she was to be shapeless (“If I looked like you, I’d cut my hair short and wear trousers and pretend I was a boy,”) she would act like I’d insulted her. I on the other hand, had to endure insults in the form of comments about my breasts. Giving someone directions or in some other way being helpful frequently resulted in being sucker-punched with a comment like, “Nice boobs, by the way,” or “You’re so lucky to have big boobs.”

Seriously? I hate body part comments, not to mention the word "boobs". To me, those comments are simply pointing out my shortcomings and reinforcing someone else’s reason to “put me in my place.” It’s a statement that says no matter what you do, how accomplished you may be, you’re still female, and as such, so much less than. I’ve always wanted to make a comeback when a guy makes such a comment with, “I guess you’re not circumcised or there’d be nothing left.” But I’m so angered and embarrassed by their comments that I go into brain freeze.

Which brings me to dresses, or as I call them, slave clothes. If you like them, great. Wear them. But don’t expect me to. I spent years being forced to wear them, and a few years wearing them in a vain attempt to fit in. Clothes may make the man, but a dress does not make the woman.

I find dresses uncomfortable. At my age and shape, they simply enhance my frumpiness. I find ones that are so tight that the woman’s breasts are popping out the top to be disgusting because they reinforce the idea that a woman’s only role is sexual and decorative. If she isn’t selling sex, she isn’t worthy. If the “Me Too” movement really wanted to make a statement, those supporting it at the Academy Awards would have come dressed in trousers and suit coats, not slit-to-the-thigh or tops-open-to-the-navel gowns.

People tell me it’s a clothing choice, giving women more selection. I have enough selection, thanks. Many women wear skirts or dresses to appeal to men.

High heels enhance the shapeliness of the leg, making it more appealing -- to men.  They also distort the feet, setting the wearer up for future health issues. And don't even get me started on women's underwear commecials. There's no reason women should have to be sexy. Doing that, they’re setting themselves up as the “also ran.” Again, you have to appeal to a man to matter. I say, like me for who I am, not my clothes!

Don't get me wrong; I have nothing against men. I just don't see any sense in playing a subservient role by the clothes I'm expected to wear when men have to do exactly nothing clothing-wise to show their sexuality.

I met the man I eventually married in the same thing he was wearing: fencing whites, a mask and carrying a sabre (and I won the bout). He was a worthy opponent.

Recently, I was supposed to attend a party. A group of us at my kickboxing club had completed a diet and exercise program. To celebrate, they were having a “little black dress” party. I don’t own a little black dress. I wasn’t about to buy one to wear once. I mentioned I’d be wearing black trousers instead, saying I don’t do dresses. Another woman (a woman, for heaven’s sake!) told me that I needed to start  “doing dresses.”

No, actually, I don’t. I didn’t end up going to the party because 1) I’m an introvert and didn’t know most of the people attending, 2) while I like the idea of parties, I don’t actually like parties, and 3) I didn’t really want to socialize with people who believe that because of an accident of my birth, I am required to dress in a certain way in order to look good.

To me, a dress is yet another device by which women are kept enslaved. You don’t see superheroes in heels and dresses.

The Trip to Ireland

Not long ago, I decided to revisit Ireland. There were several places I missed on my last trip that I wanted to see. I also wanted to take a total immersion Gaelic course I’d heard about. Also, last time I decided I wanted to travel alone. I’m not sure I’m a good fit as a traveling companion. However, this decision disappointed a few friends who had wanted to see Ireland. I promised to take them next time.

I pride myself on keeping my word whenever possible. So, when I made my decision to go, I let my friends know to see who was interested. First one, then another and another expressed interest. Before I knew it there were 7 other people besides me going. Or at least, there were 7 people who said they wanted to go. So, I invited my brother and his wife. What’s two more?

I told everyone to get tour books, browse the web, whatever they’re comfortable with, and find out what places they wanted to see in Ireland, and send me a list. I gave what I felt were pretty good instructions: make a list of all of the places you want to see, then cut it in half and send it to me. From everyone’s list, I’ll compile a list of what everyone wants to see, and hopefully, you’ll get to see at least half of what’s on the list you send me. We always think we can do more than we really can.

But a few months went by, and I heard nothing. So, I sent an email outlining some dos and don’ts. For example, each was responsible to get their own tickets to things like planes and rail passes, if that’s what we decided to use. I told people Tuesdays were the best days to get airline deals I also told them if I found something, I’d let them know so that most of us, at least, could be on the same flight. 

I also said that if we, as a group, decided to do something that needed tickets, they were responsible to get their tickets. I would send websites necessary, but they needed to actually make their reservations because sometimes, especially in the summer, if you wait, you lose. Or, if you wait till you get there, the price is higher. Also Eurail passes can only be bought in the US.

From past experience, I’ve had people make decisions without bothering to tell me. “Oh, you know what you’re doing; you’ve been there before. Whatever you decide is fine,” I’m told, but secretly, the other person has decided on something not on the agenda. I can be as spontaneous as anyone, but when someone springs a “surprise” on me, especially when plans for something else have already been arranged, the plans go straight down the tubes. And then they wonder why we didn’t do something we were supposed to do.

I once went to Europe with a friend and had everything turned upside down.  I had wanted to see Ireland. She decided once we got there that she hated the place (because it was raining!  It was spring and Ireland. What did she expect?), so I got all of 2 days in the country I wanted to spend a week in, and we ended up going to another country, which was her unexpressed plan all along. We had planned to go there after Ireland, but her plans apparently didn’t include Ireland. She could’ve told me.

With a large group, there’s not a lot of room for spontaneity. I sent an email outlining what I would be asking people to do as far as letting me know what they wanted to do, and understanding that with such a large group, they might not get all of their wishes. 

I also said that if we have bus tours arranged, they leave when scheduled, so it’s important for everyone to be prompt arriving at a meeting place. If they were late, chances are, they’d be left on their own. I also told them that if part of the group wanted to do one thing and part wanted to do something else, we could split up and pursue separate activities – assuming we were all staying in roughly the same area. But I stressed that, since I’m not a travel agent, I was not responsible for anyone not bothering to get necessary tickets, etc.

One member of the group responded by saying this might not be the trip for her, since she’d never been overseas before. Fair enough. She was going to consider it if I could give her a ballpark idea of costs. I did.

But I heard nothing from anyone else. I had told them, for booking purposes, especially for B&Bs or hotels, which I could book because you pay when you get there, I needed to know by Christmas who was definitely going.

The weeks and months went by and I still had no word from anyone about what cities or towns they were interested in visiting. I collected data on my own and passed it along to help them with their ideas.

I suppose I’m one of the rare creatures in the world that likes to get my plans firmly set early. I absolutely hate waiting till the last minute to set things up because too often, plans are smashed by unavailability. I pack at least a week before I’m going somewhere.

Finally, the day after Cyber Monday, the day they were calling Travel Tuesday, I found some amazingly fantastic flight deals, and booked my flight. Yes, I’m going to Dublin by way of London (nearly as silly as going to Stockholm from New Jersey by way of Chicago), but it was far cheaper than a direct flight. (And that was before I got it free because I applied my miles from my Capital One card) So, I let everyone know that it was a good day to book a bargain.

Then the replies started trickling in. The friend who was on the fence about the trip felt it would be better if I took the trip with my brother and sister-in-law and made some good family memories. 

Another friend said she just didn’t think it was in her budget this year. One of my nieces said she couldn’t really afford it, since she’s in graduate school. 

But that’s where the responses ended.  There were still others who might potentially be going who had said not one word. There were a couple I assumed weren’t going due to university obligations. I emailed another to find out whether or not she was going, and she had decided not to go this time.

So, it was down to my brother, sister-in-law and me. I was going, even if I was the only one.

Blue Scream of Jeff, my other half, told me not to leave the trip open ended, asking people where they wanted to go. He suggested I pick what we were doing, and present it, then find out what they did and didn’t want to do based on that.

So, I put together two possible agendas, one going north, mainly Dublin, Belfast, Derry and Galway, with trips in and around each area, and one going south, Dublin to Cork to Galway, with trips in and around each area. Whatever they picked, if I wanted to see something they didn’t choose, I had 4 days between when they left and when I was due to take my Gaelic course when I could scurry off to seek out new life, new civilizations…. To boldly go where no one had gone before… Oh no, that was Star Trek. Anyway, I had 4 days of alone time for my own pursuits.

So, now all I need to do is wait for July, and find out where there are laundromats in Ireland so I don’t have to pack a month’s worth of clothes.

Social Media

I’m an introvert. Some people might argue that point, saying I’m outgoing and I could talk the legs off a chair. Perhaps I am outgoing at work. It’s part of my job requirement. And if you get me started on something that interests me, I can talk on seemingly forever.

But at the end of the day, I’m emotionally exhausted. The last thing I want to do is socialize.

I like the idea of parties, but I hate the actuality.

 Making plans to go somewhere with someone sounds nice, but once I get the chance to think about it, I don’t really want to, especially if it involves shopping.

In large groups, I’m usually the one off to the side reading a book or writing something (and contrary to what others think, people I know will never end up in one of my stories).

I hate small talk, and I usually miss social cues. I sometimes wonder if I’m on the spectrum.

While I can talk forever about things that interest me, I apparently don’t have the same interests as very many people. I don’t like mystery stories or comic books, which many of the people I know do.

Because I travel a good bit, the thing I particularly hate is when people tell me to bring my travel pictures with me. Maybe they’re just being polite about being interested in my doings, but rarely if ever does anyone bother to even look at pictures I’ve brought with me. Having carted things around unnecessarily, I get miffed at this. My attitude is, don’t say you want to see something if you’re really not interested.

With that in mind, I’ve stopped bringing pictures or anything else with me. I haven’t yet even needed to explain, “Oh, I didn’t bother because you’ve never been interested when I brought them before.”

Which brings me to social media. This is the perfect medium for anyone who likes the idea of socializing, but doesn’t care to be in a room full of people.

I first came to social media via AOL chat rooms. I don’t know if they still exist, but they used to have chat rooms for nearly every interest. Finding an actual interest proved more challenging than one might think.

One room I thought I’d like was supposed to be for writers. It ended up being a group of close friends who did nothing but discuss their aches and pains.

I tried several others, determined to find people I could chat with. Most wouldn’t talk to anyone new, and acted very affronted if a new person dared to say anything.

I did finally find a place where I was actually spoken to, and after a while formed a kind of internet friendship with some.

As with most things, chat rooms devolved into giant drama spaces. The Liars Club could have been the title for a story about AOL chatrooms.

MySpace was another place I found. People had recommended it to me as a great social media platform. Connecting with people was fairly long-distance, hit-or-miss. I would post something and random people sometimes responded. It seemed to me more like a bulletin board I had in my bedroom as a teen. It was something to decorate. It didn’t really meet my needs.

I found Sodahead by accident. It was a strange site where people got points and ratings for posting questions. Others answered them. Some people were so caught up in their rankings they would ask the same questions repeatedly just for the points. They seldom responded to anyone else’s questions.

Sometimes on Sodahead, it was possible to connect with others who had replied to the same questions I had. But by the 20^th time responding to something like, “What is your favorite color?” the site got old, and I left it.

Something I noticed on all of these sites was a bit peculiar. These were sites where people didn’t use their real names, but a screen name of a limited number of characters (I suppose the precursor to @#). If I were perceived as male, people were usually quite nice to me, and wanted to chat with me. I discovered this when someone said something that indicated they thought I was a guy – and that happened several times. Once I told them I wasn’t a guy, I was essentially ignored, if not outright bullied.

When I was perceived as female, it was harder to make friends and more likely that people would say snarky things to me. I don’t know why this was the case, since I saw other women treated far nicer than I was. I’m not sure what it is that I project that causes this to happen. In real life I spent elementary school both at school and at home being bullied or harassed, -- or simply left out -- for no reason that I’ve ever been able to discover.

Perhaps that’s why I prefer to do things on my own. It’s easier to have a good time by myself.

My brother pestered me into joining Facebook. Frankly, I couldn’t see the point. I did finally join, and discovered many of my relatives and friends were also there. I was careful about who I accepted as a friend.

I have an author page as well as my regular one, and a few of the strangers I have accepted on that page have tried to either sell me their children or beg me to marry them so they could come to America to live. Needless to say, such people were unfriended in a hurry. They weren’t going to buy my books, anyway. I’ve also had the occasional person who thought I was a swinger who was looking for discussions of a sexual nature. In those instances, I was glad I had quick access to “unfriend”.

And again, I wonder what is it about me that attracts that sort? I certainly have nothing in my profile that would make anyone think I was that sort of person.

Of course, once I was on Facebook with however many friends it says I have (I don’t know, and I don’t care), people were all about Twitter and Snapchat and whatever else is out there. “Oh, you have to do those,” I’m told.

Somehow, I don’t think so.

Even though my friends on Facebook are actual friends and family, there are newsfeeds one can respond to. Unfortunately, these days people tend to be mean and snarky toward anyone who has an opinion different from theirs.

I’m not a confrontational person. If someone says something I don’t agree with, I leave it alone and don’t comment. If someone disagrees politely, we can sometimes have a nice chat. But once someone gets snarky, I’m done.

I have blocked a few relatives who got snarky with me because they apparently don’t have the reading skills to understand something I posted, and then brought their friends in to keep the snark going.

Taking a page from the, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,” philosophy, I’ve been known to speak some rather rude comments at my computer, in the privacy of my home office. But I wouldn’t dream of typing to Facebook comments like, “I had no idea you were such a deliberate idiot,” or “Drama queen much?” And no one will ever know if they were the object of such a sentiment, since I would never be so rude outside the confines of an empty room.

I’ve taken the suggestion of one of my cousins to protect my feelings. I don’t bother looking at comments to what I’ve written from anyone I don’t know. I don’t need the negativity in my life.

I’ve read about how addictive social media is. I find the opposite is true. At first, it’s interesting, like being in a bookstore with a credit card.

But negative, mean, bullying responses shot in my direction cooled my interest quickly. I may have had to put up with that behavior in school, but I’m not about to have it inflicted on me on the internet by strangers.

I end up checking in to see if any one of my friends has said or done anything interesting, or posted any interesting pictures. (I do look at other people’s pictures.)

I don’t think I’m anyone special, and when people start making accusations based on an innocent comment – or even a joke – that I think I am, or that I think I’m better than everyone else, or whatever, it’s like being in elementary school again.

Social media could be a godsend, but it rarely remains one. For me, it hasn’t lived up to the promises. Yes, it helps me keep in touch with friends and relatives, but beyond that, I’d rather read a book.