I entered the dressing room at the now shuttered Loehmann on 7th Ave, through their red curtain, and awkwardly turned, looking for a stall or chair to crawl behind to enact the horribly personal task of trying on clothes. No where. No nook I could tuck myself into. I had never been in a communal dressing room before, and I debated walking back out and being judged by the other patrons.
Setting my bag and clothes down in the corner, I silently cursed myself for wearing a little dress with no bra. First item up was the strapless bra, the evil invention required for that season’s lacy backs and unconventional straps. If I were alone, it would’ve been quick and painless, but now there were other women in the dressing room — 3 more audience members of a show I hadn’t even auditioned for. I pulled the straps of my dress off my pale and bony shoulders and let them hang loosely as I planned my order of operations. The reflections in the mirrors showed equally self involved women, yet I was still anxious about revealing any part of myself that doesn’t normally see the city streets. A woman behind me took off her shirt. As she raised her arms over her head, I saw her rib bones and glowing skin. I was jealous of her confidence, the ability to know that the strangers reflected in the mirrors around her didn’t care. I hooked the bra on over my dress, then tried tugging the thick linen out from underneath. The top of my breasts emerged and I franticly maneuvered the cups and the dress in order to conceal myself. The 20-something next to me was zipping up a cocktail dress and spent the next five minutes examining her image. Side by side, yet wrapped up in our own shopping experiences, we stood there scrutinizing our young bodies.
While we adjusted panty lines and sucked in our stomachs, another woman entered the room, taking up the spot that the evilly toned, golden business goddess had just vacated. She hung an armful of bras up on a bar, stripped off her shirt and flung it aside. Her body spoke of motherhood, of sacrifices made, of tuition bills to be paid, of one more night of leftovers. Each roll of flesh and every stretch mark hinted at her full days spent shepherding children to school, running errands and wondering if this life was what she wanted. Out of the three of us in the dressing room, she was the only one not following the choreography set down by generations of women before us. The front view, the sideways turn, the head tilt to the left and the return to center. The dance of ambivalence, a pas de deux between low confidence and the petite presence of self awareness, which solos ever so briefly to the tune of “I know I look good.”
While I debated a pair of pants, she tried on bra after bra. All beige, white or black. No padding. No ruffles. I finished buttoning the size 1 red skinny jeans and stretched a skin tight black tee over my head.
Sideways turn.
Head tilt.
First position.
I glanced at the woman through the mirror. Unabashedly exposing her sagging breasts every time she unhooked one bra, replaced it on the hanger and exchanged it for another.
My eyes found my own back. I admired my countable ribs and pointy shoulder blades, pleased at myself for having the determination and strict self control that blessed me with the ability to squeeze into jeans.
It was a stupid thing to be proud of.
