“Do you have a dress?” you ask.
“No, I don’t wear dresses,” I say.
“What will you wear to the club?”
“Track pants and t-shirt, of course.” I dismiss you.
“But you should wear a dress to a club!” you insist.
“You’re stereotyping. I can wear whatever I want to wear.”
“Do you own a dress?”
“I am going to buy you one.”
“I don’t like dresses. I’m a track-pants-person. I used to wear them to work too! I wear them everywhere.”
“Why don’t you like dresses?”
I stutter and stammer, wishing I could summon my guardian angel to put sensible words in my mouth so that I don’t communicate to you like a sack of potatoes.
“Why do you hate dressing up?” you relentlessly pursue.
“I dress up! I dress up.. once every quarter when I feel like it. I like being comfortable in the clothes that I wear and I only ever am comfortable in tracks and t-shirts.”
“Dresses make you feel uncomfortable?”
“I am conscious of my body, yes. It’s part of the reason.”
“You shouldn’t be. You should wear a dress. Let’s go shop for a dress.”
“I hate shopping.”
We don’t shop for a dress.
Nine days later, as I roam a shopping facility that a metropolitan city provides, I look at the rows and rows of clothes on either side of me and find the words that would’ve helped my case nine days before.
I don’t consider clothes an investment of time, energy and money necessary to my existence. I like the six t-shirts and three tracks I own. I do not receive commensurate returns from the investment made while ‘dressing up’. The four times a year that the returns are indeed favourable, I do ‘dress up’: I borrow and I get by.
Nine days later, as I roam a shopping facility that a metropolitan city provides, I come across a little black dress.
I would still wear tracks and t-shirts if I were possessing the type of body that would not make me self-conscious.
Nine days later, I own six t-shirts, three tracks and a dress; and four is still the number of times I am likely to find the aforementioned returns favourable.
Love Affairs In, With & After Nepal