Gigi Goes on Dates

A few days ago, I was with a guy. He picked me up at midnight, just after we matched on an app and exchanged some texts and Snapchats. I wore baggy gray Skims sweatpants, a white tank top with no bra, a light pink silk thong with the words Victoria’s Secret bedazzled on the side, and a fuzzy pale blue sweater from an old Frankies Bikini set. I thought I was giving casual, messy chic. Apparently not. I got into his car, and we drove to an empty street, where we proceeded to make out. Let’s just say this was not a date; it was a sneaky link at best. His hands grasped my waist, his fingers sliding down my stomach until he touched my hips. Which was when he asked me, “Why are you wearing sweatpants?” This question threw me off immediately. I didn’t realize I was sitting across from Miranda Priestly. But we were in LA after all, the land of sensitive men clad in $300 Japanese denim. It was 12:30 in the morning, in his car, with no expectations of chivalry–I was not aware I was supposed to be dressed for the Met Gala. My sweatpants were a serve within context. They bagged perfectly, slightly revealing my thong. He expected something different. That's when I began to ask myself—What do men want? And why should I care?

Does my ass look big in these jeans? Should I wear a thong? A bra? Should I shave anywhere? Everywhere? Do I look feminine? Do I look cool? Would I be into myself? 

These are just a few of the questions I pain myself with before meeting up with a man. 

As someone who is recently back on the dating scene, it's been over a year since I attempted to paint myself for someone else’s gaze. It feels compulsory to shave before a date—I don’t feel sexy if I don’t. Is something deeply wrong there? One of my Wesleyan professors said that the process of becoming a perfect woman is an uncanny one—one of removing your humanity to be perceived as perfect. I want to remain human…Yet I also want to be perfect. Aware of all this (even after writing a paper about uncanny femininity called “Statues, Gynoids, and Sex Dolls”), I stand in my bathroom shaving myself, brushing my hair, and painting on a perfect face. All before I confront my closet and ask myself, “How do I want to be perceived?” 

This is a difficult question to answer when I am not entirely sure who I am. Pinterest offers versions of who I could be, but I never seem to have the right plaid shirt or white bloomers to complete the look. So I stand in front of my closet, considering every version of myself I could be. 

Before the first date I went on to launch myself back into the dating world, I frantically sent my friends photos of different outfits–different versions of myself–for the date. I asked at least five friends which one looked the best. I sent them two photos, one of a brown and white polka dot dress that I had just gotten at TJ Maxx (love a steal) and the other, suggested by my best friend, of an oversized Jersey for a team I can't even name, white booty shorts, and my brown Frye Campus boots. 

My friends liked both outfits, but ultimately seemed to sway toward the dress, which was what I had originally intended to wear. I wore the dress with black Brain Dead X Adidas sneakers and a red purse. I decorated it with a bag chain I made out of beads, along with numerous key chains that clang obnoxiously when I walk—but that's kinda my thing. I was nervous, wiping my sweaty palms on my dress. The date went well. The guy loved my outfit and told me I was beautiful. But he saw the best version of me. When I got home, I began to ask myself, was the two-hour pre-date routine (which, to be fair, included a fair amount of making TikToks and texting my best friend) something I was going to have to do EVERY TIME I met up with someone? Yikes, I was already tired. 

A few days later, I made plans to hang out with a guy I used to have a thing with. The last time he saw me was over a year ago, and I had an orange mullet—I fear that since then, I have tried to make myself employable. So now I was ready to show up with my brown bob and serve a newly grown-up woman. I did my makeup, although I was not particularly happy with it. I've been wearing makeup a lot recently, and it's not doing my skin any favors. I went to look at my closet, again faced with a question—this time instead of asking who am I, the question was who have I become? I quite literally could not answer. So I put on a gray wife-beater, baggy Levi jeans I had recently thrifted at Squaresville in Los Angeles, and embroidered brown cowboy boots that I bought on the side of the street in Mexico City. I put

my hair up in the only claw clip I have, small enough to hold my bob, and called it a day. 

When I got to his house, we lay in bed and smoked and talked—eventually he told me I looked older, more corporate. I wondered in my head if an angel had lost her wings. But then he told me I was serving Hillary Clinton mother (confusing but somehow true) and Blair Waldorf. And you know what? Fuck yeah. He also told me he’s over putting on outfits (or as he put it, “throwing fits”). Which I think is a very interesting concept. What does it mean to put on an outfit? His comment seemed to mesh perfectly with the internal conflict I’ve been having over getting dressed for dates. 

Since I became single, I’ve been told many things by many different men about who I am— I’m beautiful, I’m hot, I’m scary, I look older. Do these things define me? I can determine how much so. So, when getting dressed for a date or sneaky link, here’s my advice, and boy, do I need to take it myself:  WEAR WHATEVER YOU WANT. And if whoever you are into isn't into it, they aren't right for you. Fashion is fun and to some degree a performance, but it's also authentic, an extension of you. I don’t know who I am. You may not know who you are. But let's figure it out together—and keep dating and looking good along the way.