![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
juushikaI intended to append this to my previous post, but it has grown unexpectedly into a wily, furry beast.
Ah, if only!
So. A few days ago, I ordered leg warmers from Sock Dreams. I abhor pants with a passion that leaves no room for analogy, but my legs get cold. So Devon and I sent $13 to Sock Dreams with fingers crossed and, behold: legwarmers!
They are this pair, specifically: 40 inches of ribbed acrylic and nylon goodness. The verdict? Everything I need them to be. They stay up well enough for lounging around in the bedroom (because when I'm up and walking about, I generally wear pants), they are long and thick enough to cover as much and be as warm as I need, and even new they are remarkably non-itchy (but I suspect it'll take a few runs through the washer for them to reach comfortable). The quality is solid and I suspect they'll hold up well. The price was more than fair, basic shipping is free(!), and they ship out promptly. All in all: recommended.
The only thing is that wearing them feels a bit odd—for, as it turns out, complicated reasons.
I am short, with short legs in particular, and they're thick. My legs aren't my best feature, and I'm at peace with that. I have other, more flattering curves to better appreciate, and I do at that. But it's still frustrating—because I have a fantasy in which I could wear bulky leg warmers on skinny little legs, and it would be twee and fey and delightful. If bodies were a pick-and-chose business, I'd be my same height and 100 pounds; I'd be tiny and stick-like and I'd wear baggy clothes and layers and stockings and be adorable. If I did that now—I'd look like a dirty laundry basket. Now mind, I didn't buy these for wearing in front of anyone but the boy. They're intended to be useful. But stick-girl me would own half of Sock Dreams if she existed, and so there's an odd envy for who I am not, what they are not: a tiny little thing with wild hair, wearing oversized sweater, a miniskirt, and these runched and bulky legwamers. With glasses and a book, she is fey and beautiful.
She doesn't exist. Couldn't exist—no matter how healthy or starved I were, I will always be short and curvy and I will never have stick legs to wrap in heavy socks. Adorable layered fey-me is a fantasy: a style which I find attractive, and cute, and enjoyable. But you know, I have other fashion fantasies, and some of those do mesh with the body I have. I enjoy Japanese fashion, from adorable baggy layers to gothic lolita, all of which would look hellish on my figure. I'm currently having cravings for corsets and full skirts, brocades and black; blame![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cupcake_goth but I yearn for Victorian goth fashion—and my curves could pull off a lot of it. I love the bridge between crunchy and fashionable: organic cotton, hippy skirts and handmade shirts purchased on Etsy, fresh and natural but stylish, and much of that style would flatter me.
As it is, I have no personal style. In part that's because I rarely leave the house and have no money to spend on clothing even if I knew what I wanted to buy. I wear the boy's shirts and stay in bed; I wear comfortable, durable clothes from my parents and hand-me-downs from my sister, and pull together a Eddie Bauer-catalog look from that. It's functional but never quite comfortable. I don't feel beautiful, I rarely feel pulled together or truly dressed.
But say I had endless funds, and no agoraphobia, and shopping for clothes wasn't unimaginable hell: what would I buy? A few black skirts and organic cotton shirts with bonus longing looks at oversized sweaters? Would I go rich-hippy, would I aim for goth? I honestly have no idea, and I find this curious. Part of the reason I have no style is just that I don't know what I would have if I could. I don't know what my "look" is.
And here's the thing: I look in the mirror and don't recognize what I see. Part of that is the face blindness/mental images thing, but the bulk of it is that I would be more at home in fur than skin: that my human body feels accidental and not fully mine own. Yeah, I'm going there with that therianthropy thing. There's a certain level at which I'm not quite connected to the body I'm in—I can't imagine what it looks like behind my closed eyes; I can't idealize how it could look, should look, would look if I followed this or that fashion. Which isn't to say the me in my head is on four legs—rather that there isn't one. My internal self is words, which is how my human brain works. My internal self-image is absent.
Non-human animals don't have self-image the way that humans do. They contrive appearance (a cat arching its back to appear large, a bird posturing to attract a mate), but they don't create appearance to the extent that humans use fashion to determine and express their individuality, experiences, lifestyle. As my cat self, whether in meditation or simple introspection, I don't even know what I look like. I suspect I have long fur, because I resonate with idea of grooming it—an experience, not an image. I've adopted the coloring of marmalade cat because it feels viable and also because it meshes well with the coloring I have now—but I have absolutely no assurance that it's true. It could easily be wishful thinking, and I'm at peace with that. It'd be nice to know what I look like, but it's not an important part of my feline identity. Appearance for the sake of appearance isn't important to my cat-self.
I have a human identity, a human-self—one all the more obvious because it often conflicts with my self-as-cat. (More on that here—I have links for everything!) But because I don't think in images, because my cat-self isn't concerned between with the relationship between identity and appearance, I can't imagine an appearance for my human-self. I idealize the relationship between the various human appearances and human identities which I witness: Waifish girls in bulky sweaters are fey and artsy. Organic cotton and circle skirts indicate a natural lifestyle and a combination of inner peace and an educated mind. They are beautiful, distinctive, enviable, admirable, both in style and personality. But I don't know how my personal identity should reflect in my style. I can't express myself in ten pounds of fur and bone, ginger or otherwise, not in this lifetime—and creating an appearance more nuanced than cat vs. not-cat escapes me.
There's a lot which I think looks lovely on others. I'd admire and fawn over another girl in these leg warmers. She'd be cute, and comfy. But I am out of place. Perhaps I would be out of place if I weighted 100 pounds. Perhaps I'd be out of place in a corset. I admire and desire a lot of styles but I can't wrap my head around a single one as it relates to me. I wear comfy clothes and fitted tees because they're accessible, and because honestly I don't know what else to do. I feel as if I stumbled upon a human body in this lifetime, and am neither grateful or discontent with that opportunity—but as my appearance goes, I'm at loose ends.
Oh why hello there, navel. How're you?
Ah, if only!
So. A few days ago, I ordered leg warmers from Sock Dreams. I abhor pants with a passion that leaves no room for analogy, but my legs get cold. So Devon and I sent $13 to Sock Dreams with fingers crossed and, behold: legwarmers!
They are this pair, specifically: 40 inches of ribbed acrylic and nylon goodness. The verdict? Everything I need them to be. They stay up well enough for lounging around in the bedroom (because when I'm up and walking about, I generally wear pants), they are long and thick enough to cover as much and be as warm as I need, and even new they are remarkably non-itchy (but I suspect it'll take a few runs through the washer for them to reach comfortable). The quality is solid and I suspect they'll hold up well. The price was more than fair, basic shipping is free(!), and they ship out promptly. All in all: recommended.
The only thing is that wearing them feels a bit odd—for, as it turns out, complicated reasons.
I am short, with short legs in particular, and they're thick. My legs aren't my best feature, and I'm at peace with that. I have other, more flattering curves to better appreciate, and I do at that. But it's still frustrating—because I have a fantasy in which I could wear bulky leg warmers on skinny little legs, and it would be twee and fey and delightful. If bodies were a pick-and-chose business, I'd be my same height and 100 pounds; I'd be tiny and stick-like and I'd wear baggy clothes and layers and stockings and be adorable. If I did that now—I'd look like a dirty laundry basket. Now mind, I didn't buy these for wearing in front of anyone but the boy. They're intended to be useful. But stick-girl me would own half of Sock Dreams if she existed, and so there's an odd envy for who I am not, what they are not: a tiny little thing with wild hair, wearing oversized sweater, a miniskirt, and these runched and bulky legwamers. With glasses and a book, she is fey and beautiful.
She doesn't exist. Couldn't exist—no matter how healthy or starved I were, I will always be short and curvy and I will never have stick legs to wrap in heavy socks. Adorable layered fey-me is a fantasy: a style which I find attractive, and cute, and enjoyable. But you know, I have other fashion fantasies, and some of those do mesh with the body I have. I enjoy Japanese fashion, from adorable baggy layers to gothic lolita, all of which would look hellish on my figure. I'm currently having cravings for corsets and full skirts, brocades and black; blame
cupcake_goth but I yearn for Victorian goth fashion—and my curves could pull off a lot of it. I love the bridge between crunchy and fashionable: organic cotton, hippy skirts and handmade shirts purchased on Etsy, fresh and natural but stylish, and much of that style would flatter me.As it is, I have no personal style. In part that's because I rarely leave the house and have no money to spend on clothing even if I knew what I wanted to buy. I wear the boy's shirts and stay in bed; I wear comfortable, durable clothes from my parents and hand-me-downs from my sister, and pull together a Eddie Bauer-catalog look from that. It's functional but never quite comfortable. I don't feel beautiful, I rarely feel pulled together or truly dressed.
But say I had endless funds, and no agoraphobia, and shopping for clothes wasn't unimaginable hell: what would I buy? A few black skirts and organic cotton shirts with bonus longing looks at oversized sweaters? Would I go rich-hippy, would I aim for goth? I honestly have no idea, and I find this curious. Part of the reason I have no style is just that I don't know what I would have if I could. I don't know what my "look" is.
And here's the thing: I look in the mirror and don't recognize what I see. Part of that is the face blindness/mental images thing, but the bulk of it is that I would be more at home in fur than skin: that my human body feels accidental and not fully mine own. Yeah, I'm going there with that therianthropy thing. There's a certain level at which I'm not quite connected to the body I'm in—I can't imagine what it looks like behind my closed eyes; I can't idealize how it could look, should look, would look if I followed this or that fashion. Which isn't to say the me in my head is on four legs—rather that there isn't one. My internal self is words, which is how my human brain works. My internal self-image is absent.
Non-human animals don't have self-image the way that humans do. They contrive appearance (a cat arching its back to appear large, a bird posturing to attract a mate), but they don't create appearance to the extent that humans use fashion to determine and express their individuality, experiences, lifestyle. As my cat self, whether in meditation or simple introspection, I don't even know what I look like. I suspect I have long fur, because I resonate with idea of grooming it—an experience, not an image. I've adopted the coloring of marmalade cat because it feels viable and also because it meshes well with the coloring I have now—but I have absolutely no assurance that it's true. It could easily be wishful thinking, and I'm at peace with that. It'd be nice to know what I look like, but it's not an important part of my feline identity. Appearance for the sake of appearance isn't important to my cat-self.
I have a human identity, a human-self—one all the more obvious because it often conflicts with my self-as-cat. (More on that here—I have links for everything!) But because I don't think in images, because my cat-self isn't concerned between with the relationship between identity and appearance, I can't imagine an appearance for my human-self. I idealize the relationship between the various human appearances and human identities which I witness: Waifish girls in bulky sweaters are fey and artsy. Organic cotton and circle skirts indicate a natural lifestyle and a combination of inner peace and an educated mind. They are beautiful, distinctive, enviable, admirable, both in style and personality. But I don't know how my personal identity should reflect in my style. I can't express myself in ten pounds of fur and bone, ginger or otherwise, not in this lifetime—and creating an appearance more nuanced than cat vs. not-cat escapes me.
There's a lot which I think looks lovely on others. I'd admire and fawn over another girl in these leg warmers. She'd be cute, and comfy. But I am out of place. Perhaps I would be out of place if I weighted 100 pounds. Perhaps I'd be out of place in a corset. I admire and desire a lot of styles but I can't wrap my head around a single one as it relates to me. I wear comfy clothes and fitted tees because they're accessible, and because honestly I don't know what else to do. I feel as if I stumbled upon a human body in this lifetime, and am neither grateful or discontent with that opportunity—but as my appearance goes, I'm at loose ends.
Oh why hello there, navel. How're you?
