Underdressed
Last week I talked about my small town childhood terror of turning up to an A&P show overdressed – that whole “Who do you think you are?” jab from the local cool girls.
But as a mature adult, the greater fear is the opposite – turning up underdressed. As much as I try (I own several tiaras) I can still get it wrong and look like I’ve stumbled into the ballroom on my way to a picnic.
This wound is fresh. “Business Casual” the invitation said for an outdoor gathering in winter. That dress code confuses me – “business” makes me think “buttoned-up” while casual has me picturing “unbuttoned”. Of course, what it really means is “chill but expensive”, the stuff we imagine we’d wear round the yacht if we were rich.
I’d decided it meant my new orange chunky-knit top, black culottes and vintage red wool coat, all of which felt pretty great on the way to the venue. But once you put this ensemble in a room full of oysters and champagne, you realise it’s just a woolly jumper and baggy pants with an op-shop jacket thrown over it. I spent the evening continually reapplying my lipstick so I’d look as though I’d made some kind of effort.
Because that’s one of the possible things being underdressed says about you – you just didn’t care enough to try. You don’t respect the host and their event, and that’s the last time they’ll invite you here, by jingo.
There are other interpretations – you are able to think of them all as you sweat into your wool jersey while everyone around you is wearing silk.
Perhaps you just mismanaged your day and didn’t have time to go home and change. Or you think this outfit is much fancier than everyone else thinks it is, meaning you have bad taste. Or maybe you don’t actually own anything nice because you are poor and/or you grew up away from the glamour of the city.
Meaning – and now we’re getting to the heart of it – you don’t belong here. This is why being underdressed (and also overdressed) feels shameful. You have failed to “fit in”.
But as always, naming the fear – in this case, failure to belong – takes away much of the sting.
We all take clues from the things people wear to build a picture of who they are, and whether we – on a primal level – trust them and feel safe around them; or are going to – on a social level – make friends and get on.
Mostly, I will think, “Those shoes are amazing,” and “That colour is incredible”, and often, “that is not a thing I could wear but crikey, I’m glad you did because wow,” and I will say those things out loud.
Other times I think, “I don’t reckon she’s a clothes person,” or “That is not how this guy would dress if he thought he had a choice,” and I will keep those thoughts to myself.
But these are only some of the clues. There’s also what people say, how they say it, how they make you feel.
I look back on that night and, apart from a couple of stand-out ensembles – a pink suit and a green dress were memorable for all the good reasons – I couldn’t tell you what anyone else was wearing. Ties? Jeans? Sequins? Knitwear? Haven’t a clue. They may as well have been nude. Except I’d have noticed that.
Lovely chats, however, with several people and promises to meet again. No idea what I will wear.