There are two drawers in my armoire that are filled with clothes saved exclusively for “going out.” These costumes are meant to give me confidence with perfectly crafted jeans, padded bras that create an incredible illusion when combined with bodysuits that are cut lower than fashion should accept; they don’t. They, like me, are frauds in a fashion show.
I shine, I glow, I carry the look just so in order to appear bold, and self-assured. Underneath the cloak of fabric, I’m naked, scared, and insecure. I constantly survey the room to ensure that I’m not the glaring sore thumb glowing in the mood lighting. My companion is always the flair of perfection. Sometimes I think I’ve been invited to be the D.U.F.F., or the distraction from the piece de resistance.
She says that’s all in my head, but I look like an awkward chipmunk in all of the photos she posts. Her life is always “Insta-ready,” at least that’s what she wants you to believe.
When I’m on my own, or with other people though, I hold my own style with pride. Nothing holds me back. I dress for myself, for comfort, for fun. I often enrobe myself in outfits from those sacred drawers, but somehow the textiles feel different against my skin.
There is something to be said about living in the spotlight of an Instagram flash: it leaves me lost in the shadows because I don’t crave “Insta-fame.” I can’t act out perfection when I feel flawed.
Out of the spotlight, I breathe. I may not wear my skin in complete confidence, but at least I am myself!