Labeling Myself for Others’ Consumption
I’m not trying to understand myself — I’m trying to explain myself.
“You seem very conservative,” the drunk girl said.
I look down. I’m in a long, black, body-hugging sleeveless dress. The neckline meets my collarbones, mixing with the jumble of gold necklaces I layered.
“Yeah, very conservative,” she repeated.
We hadn’t hung out before, so she couldn’t have known that all summer I had been on a plunging neckline kick, rocking crop tops and halterneck tops that at one point I would have felt too exposed in, but now, at thirty, I felt so comfortable in.
She couldn’t have known that I feel free in my skin, and enjoy showing it (when it’s warm). But the party called for cocktail attire, so I had served.
It was an innocent statement, made with no ill intent, but it still got me thinking. It was one of the rare occasions it had registered that someone put a label on me, especially since it was so far from what I would label myself.
I say “registered” because I honestly rarely notice when people put labels on me. Although it is inconceivable that a young woman in America is not labeled constantly, labels aren’t usually said directly to my face.
