Ah, high school. A time of learning, a time of growth. A time when I experimented with thick black eyeliner and straightened the crap out of my already relatively straight hair. High school was the first time in my education I didn't have to wear a school uniform, so it was the first time I had a chance to really develop my own sense of style. In elementary school, my outside-of-school wardrobe consisted almost exclusively of Limited Too, which encouraged outfits like mini skirts with cropped leggings and neutral, zip-up hoodies over brightly-colored cami tops. I was what psychologists call an "early-maturing girl," which basically means "my booblets cropped up in fourth grade and now I'm more likely to have issues with low self-esteem, delinquency, aggression, and risky sexual behavior."
For as grim as my prognosis may have been, all in all, I'd say I turned out alright. A healthy fear of authority figures kept me from getting in any real trouble, and crippling anxiety around the opposite sex meant that I didn't kiss a boy until I was twenty. But because I grew five inches and started developing curves while my friends still resembled tiny adorable bean poles, I was self-conscious about my body from the moment I began my ~transition~ into womanhood.
I'll never forget the exact moment I felt like my body was something to be ashamed of. We had a pool in California, and my birthday is in September, so basically all of my birthday parties growing up were pool parties. Each party, like most activities we took part in as kids, was well documented in photos. Even before Facebook and Instagram, I was obsessed with looking back through pictures of all the parties, trips, and soccer games stored on our family computer. I was ten, and I decided to scroll through the photos from my birthday party just months before. I saw a picture of myself in a swimsuit my mom had purchased especially for my birthday, standing outside on our patio, smiling down at my birthday cake. I saw immediately that something wasn't right about my body, it didn't look like the pictures of girls in swimsuits I'd seen in magazines and on the walls of my favorite clothing stores. My thighs were bigger than theirs and my stomach wasn't as flat; I looked at my hips and for the first time, I understood the term "muffin top." I quickly exited out of the photo to look at something else.
From that point on, my body felt like something I needed to hide instead of something I needed to nourish or be kind to. I wore sports bras to school, strapping my boobs down to look like my prepubescent friends. I wore my bottoms up higher on my hips, in the hopes that they'd flatten out any possible curves. My goal with clothing was to mask my body, to make it look like everyone else's. The one exception was when I wore dresses, especially of the formal variety, and it wasn't until high school that I started wearing those kinds of dresses more regularly. It was through wearing those dresses that I learned how to love my body.
Freshman year, I went to homecoming with a boy I met through my sister, who was a senior. I wore this bright purple peplum dress, and those two little pieces of fabric made my hips feel like my best feature instead of public enemy number one. I made the mistake of lifting those flaps in the mirror before going downstairs for pictures, just to see if this dress had peplum-by-day, bodycon-by-night potential. It didn't. Without the peplum, I felt like I had a lumpy bagel sitting around my hips. That dress was my beginners tutorial for fit-and-flare dresses.
Sophomore year I went to winter formal with I boy from my middle school. I picked this dress because, once again, its full skirt turned my hips into the sassy divas they always wanted to be. I'd really hit the sweet spot of my fit-and-flare obsession with this dress; it's hard to tell from this angle, but the tulle underneath each spiral of the skirt layered on top of itself in a truly gravity-defying way. For a girl who's hero had been Susan B. Anthony for years, this dress truly made me feel like a fairy princess.
I didn't go to any dances junior year (see: reasons I defied the early-maturing girl predictions), but I did walk in a fashion show for National Charity League, a mother-daughter organization focused on promoting leadership skills and philanthropy amongst young women. When James, the man in charge, pulled out this purple midi dress for me, he looked me dead in the eye and murmured, "Very Carrie." I hadn't watched a minute of "Sex in the City" in my life, but in that moment, I felt chic.
Senior year, I was chosen homecoming queen, presumably because of the madness that was my life at that time. I wasn't planning on attending the dance, but when you get elected to homecoming court, you're strongly encouraged to at least make an appearance. I remember my mom taking me shopping on a Wednesday afternoon after school so we could find two dresses: one for the homecoming game, where my dad would escort me out on the field to find out who would be crowned queen, and another for the dance itself. I found this dress at Urban Outfitters and chose it because it was more laid-back than any of the others I'd worn in my high school formalwear career. I may not have looked as fancy as some of my fellow court members, but I felt regal af.
Wearing these dresses didn't cure my insecurities about my body, but it helped me to look at myself and see the parts I didn't always like as assets to play up instead of flaws to hide. Though self-love is a battle to be fought every day, it doesn't hurt to get dressed up sometimes to remind yourself how fine you really can be.
