if only i were that small...

I think I may have hit my limit with the shopping necessary for both The Assignment and The Photos Which Will Soon Be Taken.

Walking the androgynous-clothing line is difficult at the best of times, but with all this pressure it’s making me a bit glassy-eyed.  I’ve hit all the stores, all the factory outlets, and most of the vintage boutiques I can muster. Don’t get me wrong- I have quite the haul to show for it. It’s just more difficult than average since I had reached a point, clothing-wise, where every single thing I owned fit me like a bed sheet draped over a dachshund.  The price of losing weight is steeply relative to the price of replacing your entire wardrobe in a period of a few weeks.  You buy a pair of jeans that fit, and then all your shirts could cover a banquet table. You get a shirt that fits only to see that your jacket looks ready to eat a dozen hungry-man breakfasts. It snowballs.

And after yesterday’s Excursion, during which I and my Fashionable Straight Friend focused on graphic tees and suchlike, I’m feeling a bit… well, a bit too girly, truth be told. On my own today I stopped into a shop where I had purchased an amazing blazer two weeks ago. The FSF picked it out for me despite the fact that it was a men’s jacket. But it looked so good on she “allowed” it to accompany me home.  I returned today in search of tees in bold colors, a utility white button-down, and possibly another blazer.  I forced myself to browse the women’s section with steely determination. And it was only when I was finally in the dressing room, trying on a selection of men’s vest, coats, and tees (and in fairness, some women’s too), that I realized how difficult it’s been to shop on the other side of the store.

I want to dress masculine. It’s why I am who I am.  As a little kid I was a tomboy. I started doing theater because I was tall enough to be cast as a boy in most productions. Ditto for studying theater at the Prestigious Women’s College. I didn’t play a true female role in four years, and I got to wear all the best clothes. Suits and fedoras and wingtips and cardigans and tailored shirts. My queer identity is completely wrapped up in my clothing.

I have really enjoyed the feeling that accompanies walking into a store and having clothes fit again.  I have also enjoyed discovering that women’s jeans need not be the devil incarnate and that I can successfully layer tank tops and not feel like a princess. I have enjoyed the shopping, but I feel like any more and I’ll stop being fair to myself.  I mean, yikes, I bought a fuchsia shirt yesterday.  That is, apparently, where I draw the line.

What I.m seeking is a personal tailor, to whom I can bring all the great, lovely, textured, elegant menswear I want to wrap around myself. I want a tailor who will make these things fit my body, the way they should, but still stroke that masculine-of-center stylebug I seem to have eaten as a child.  And who is affordable. Mostly, I want to find that grey area where I can dress how I like and still do what I want as well.  It’s the conundrum of my existence, in a nutshell.