Bearing on bearing.

Rebecca Frech at Shoved To Them is writing about playing the self-presentation game, something that's become necessary as she has searched for a diagnosis for the apparent degeneration of her  ten-year-old daughter's lower-body strength.

All morning, I've been thinking back to the girl I was in junior high and high school. I was a little bit hopeless. While my friends could execute the eleborately sculpted hairstyles of the 80s and 90s, and perfectly swipe on the latest make-up trends, I couldn't. I wanted to, but I always ended up looking as if I'd gotten ready in a very dark room. I would slide back to my comfortable default of tomboy, and hang out there. 

As a young mom, my go-to look became either a naked face and simple ponytail, or the bare minimum of mascara and lipgloss. I wanted to look pulled together, but it was really a lot more work than I was willing to do. Which makes mornings like this amusing and a little sad to me. 

 

In the time since Ella's arthritis journey began, I've become an expert with a flat iron. I've learned more than I ever wanted to know about the nuances of eyeshadow, and have debated the merits of different mascara brands. My jewelry box overflows with accessories, a far cry from the few funky pieces I once owned and loved.

 

Part of my transformation is due to maturity and the influence of one very style savvy friend, but more so to the quest for credibility.

 

Two years ago in a rheumatologist's office, I realized that my intelligence is tied into the perfection of my eyeliner. The more put-together I look, the more seriously medical professionals take what I have to say. My naked face makes me invisible, while a full face of make-up makes me worthy of being heard. It's a game of perception.

 

...Authority figures are perfection. That's what I've learned in the past two years.

 

If all the world is a stage, and we are merely players, I'm playing my part today. I've painted on the mask of rational and reasonable motherhood. I put on my visible intelligence along with my jewelry. I spritzed on confidence along with my perfume. It's an act, a carefully fashioned persona. It's ridiculous and maddening, and dead necessary.

One last check in the mirror, and a final tug at the shape wear that's smoothing out my imperfections. My two year old pats my leg and smiles up at me, "Pretty mama" comes from behind her paci. And I know I'm done.

 

The flawless image of calm perfection this morning is all part of a absurd game, but it's the most important one I'll ever play. I didn't make the rules, butI've learned how to play by them, and I'm going to win.

I don't have an urgent reason to put on a mask, the way Rebecca does right now.  But I relate to a lot of what she says here anyway.  I understand defaulting to a not-wanting-to-bother-with-all-that crud.  I couldn't quite figure any of it out, either, and couldn't see the point.  Ridiculous.

I didn't want to play some stupid game of presentation.

Much later, I understood that other people are going to play the game of perceiving whether we want them to or not, and opting out of that game is ... not exactly impossible... but let's say, it's a privilege to be able to  opt out of it.

You sometimes don't run up against it until, all of a sudden, a gatekeeper of some kind finds a reason to interpret their perception of you in the worst possible way.  

Rebecca needs to look like an intelligent adult, concerned for her child because of a non-imaginary reason.  Above all she needs the professionals she deals with to be able to see themselves in her place:  concerned that time is running out, frustrated by a diagnosis because it is difficult to pin down, not because it is not real.  For her daughter not to be dismissed, she needs to be undismissable. 

+ + + 

As for me, I don't have the urgent problem that Rebecca is facing; but in a way that seemed a bit backward at the time, my morning self-care routine started to get slightly more complicated the more children I had.  

As I finished up graduate school in the wake of having had my first baby (and my second), and as I realized I wasn't likely to be looking for a job anytime soon after graduate school, I neglected "professional" behavior:  I skipped out on every seminar and extra duty I could get away with, I brought the baby with me to my office and to conferences,  I worked from home, I dropped to part-time.  All this worked well enough for me given my priorities -- we kept the kids out of childcare, I graduated -- but I could feel the air turn just a bit colder.  I developed a strong aversion to the sense of not appearing to belong.    I still carry that aversion with me.  

 I do not have a "personal style" to speak of.   When it comes to dressing myself, I'm constantly waffling between two mostly-false personae:  

• the Deliberately Low-Maintenance, Vaguely Athletic (Tevas, performance-fabric hoodies, quick-dry skorts -- see the Title Nine catalogue for what I'm going for) ; and
• Simple, Classic, A Bit Retro (less-outrageous John Fluevog shoes, tailored pants and fitted dresses, lots of black, jeans carefully selected at considerable time and expense, a curated closet of a few versatile pieces).   

What these two personae have in common is only what they are not:  Sloppy Mommy.  

They are the two things I can somewhat convincingly be -- in order not to be Sloppy Mommy.  

I felt that Sloppy Mommy was somewhat forgivable, early in my parenting years.  But nowadays, when I am liable to show up at the art museum at noon or at a local family restaurant late on a Tuesday evening with five children, I'm very, very determined to avoid it.  

+ + +

Sometime during my fifth pregnancy, I went from Bare-Faced But With Decent Hair to  mascara and tinted lip balm.  

I can't decide if this is an advance or a retreat.

+ + +

As time goes on, though, it's less about who I don't want to be, and more about who I want to be.  And there's another thing those two personae have in common, another thing that separates them from the specter of Sloppy Mommy:  they look like they did it on purpose.   Athletic Me, at least in my mind, might have just came from the gym (wet hair, therefore, is totally okay) or is about to go kayaking or something.  Simple But Classic Me might be on her way to work, or to meet her husband for a dinner date.  

Both personae appear to have plans.  Options.  I'm choosing to be here, where I am, with you.  

+ + +

In college sometimes, a classmate here or there, normally unshaven in a grunge shirt and jeans full of the tiny holes that mark you as having done your time in organic chemistry lab, would suddenly show up to class in a pressed button down shirt and suit-pants, the coat hung carefully in the back of the classroom.  Or if it was a woman, the Birks traded for heels and pantyhose.  Everyone knows what that means:  Job interview today.  We accept it.  But everyone knows, yes even the interviewer knows, that The Suit is not who we really are. 

It's necessary, I guess, so we can prove that we can play the game if it's called for.  Because unwillingness to play the game is one thing, but inability is another.  

+ + +

How to maintain a belief -- simultaneously -- that invisible character is far more important than appearance -- at the same time as conceding the practical advantage of cultivating a useful appearance?  These questions never seemed to matter too much until I had children to teach.  We are trying to teach them to see beyond appearances while, simultaneously, teaching them to give no one else a reason to dismiss them because of their own appearances.  

Does the one lesson undermine the other?

I can grasp at a few ways to reconcile the disconnect.  Rebecca has found one, an adversarial interpretation:  it's a game she didn't choose to play, but having been dropped into the arena, she intends to win.  Those polished nails are sharp.

I tend to take a fake-it-till-you-make it approach, dressing as the woman I would like to be (only I'm a bit schizophrenic about exactly who that is).  Self-confidence is good to have, I might say, and it's the kind of thing that travels both directions:  when we feel confident we look polished, or at least purposeful; and when we take time to be deliberate about appearance, we feel more confident.   

Opting out is a possibility, too, but I fear it only really works when it's authentically radical:  St. Francis of Assisi, Frida Kahlo.

How about you?  Is that a mask, or is it real?

Comments

[Jenny]

I saw that post this morning and was hoping someone would post about it so I could talk about it!

When I was at that age when girls learn to do hair and make-up, I struggled to get out of bed to get to school on time and never learned. I mostly didn't care. Now that I'm an adult, any desire to be more put-together is squashed by my struggle to get out of bed to get to work on time. I feel clownish wearing make-up because I'm never sure I put it on right.

I'm not a fashionista. I don't notice what other people wear. I've never commented on someone's cute shoes because I don't ever think to look at her feet. My work wardrobe is basic. I wish I had a little bit more than I do, but don't really know what to buy, don't really have a lot of time to look and shop, and mostly don't have the budget to buy what I like. I intellectually know that I should have some nice blouses to wear, but when I'm shopping it never seems to happen. Or if I do buy something nicer, it is so structured that I dread wearing it and usually don't. I have a closet full of polos.

I am fairly certain that these details of presentation have negatively affected my career prospects. I am not the sloppy mommy, but I am a full-time working mother of young children with the sleep-deprived face that comes with it. I don't put on makeup so this fact is not disguised. My hair is in a ponytail a lot of the time.

A woman's perceived competence is tied to her appearance. That's the hard reality. It is also true that my unwillingness to play that game has hurt nobody but myself.

[Erin]

I've spent the last 18 years of my career trying to figure out where I land playing this game. Granted, my workplace has guidelines that are a condition of employment (business casual, jeans okay on Friday), but there is extensive room for interpretation. As Jenny stated, the perception of my competence is very much tied to my appearance. It just is, whether I like it or not. And, to be honest, my confidence in a group setting is higher if I'm dressed in a suit or jacket and have some makeup on. Thank goodness for fashionista friends that push me outside my comfort zone because I really have no skill or desire to learn how to dress myself in a professional manner. :)

I've been particularly challenged this summer as I'm now 30 weeks pregnant with my first child at age 39 and professional maternity clothes for an "older" mom are just a nightmare to navigate.

A thought provoking post, thanks for sharing!
Erin

[Christy P.]

It's a fascinating balance. I strive to be taken seriously while retaining functionality. For example, most women of my rank and higher in my workplace wear high heels. I don't. They aren't comfortable, and I am a pedestrian. Similarly, it gets tough to have good hair in winter when I wear a warm hat. These factors make me pay attention to the fit and shabbiness of items. One deviation from the expectation (e.g. flat shoes) can be mitigated with a nice sweater and good pants.

[Bearing]

And choosing not to wear heels is a pretty common deviation. Lots can't wear them.

I prefer shoes with at least a little heel on them most of the time, due to being so short, but select them carefully for walkability. Gaining an inch or so of height matters in the overall balance. Likewise, getting visibly older than I looked in my twenties -- not something, I hear, that is always well received -- made me feel more comfortable in my own skin. I always hated being mistaken for someone younger.

[Jenny]

See, I need someone to come shopping with me to tell me these secrets. And also someone to look in my closet and tell me what to wear with what. Accessories are completely lost on me. The whole scarf phenomenon has passed me by. Layering to achieve a certain look also eludes me. I'm pretty hopeless here.

I don't mind looking older because I have always been mistaken for being younger. I think this is a function of height. Short=young. I do mind looking tired, which is how I look most of the time.

[bearing]

I'm expecting a rapid transition from "little lady" to "little old lady." Trying to soften the blow with heels that will bring me up to five feet. Cork-soled platform wedges are my friend.

Jenny, my experience dealing with size changes necessitating wardrobe overhauls has convinced me that the secret to figuring out how to choose things that go together, if one is naturally clueless about it, is to go slowly, starting simple and adding layers of complexity only as you understand them. I am in the process of figuring this out with respect to makeup and have, as I mentioned in my post, now unlocked the Mascara And Tinted Lip Balm level.

[Melanie B]

Wow. Rebecca's post left me feel like i'd be drowning. My gut reaction is: I could never do that. Then I reconsider and think: but what if I had to? And then: I'm not sure I could play that game no matter how necessary it became. Not even for one of my kids? I guess for them. But even then I wouldn't have the first clue. I'm not sure I *could* do that.

The last time I wore any makeup was for my wedding: a little lipstick and ? there might have been something else, my sister did it for me. Before that nothing. I experimented with makeup in high school and decided it wasn't for me. It was partly that I hated wearing a mask, but mostly a tactile issue. I cannot stand the feeling of something on my face and find myself unconsciously rubbing it off, making my face a mess. And my skin is very sensitive to boot.

At this point in my life, I'm not sure I can bring myself to care that I'm Sloppy Mommy. It is what it is. My priorities are what they are and it would take something on the level of Rebecca's crisis to make me expend a great deal of energy on how I look. Maybe that could change in a few months, years, who knows? But today, it's too much work when I can't even find the energy to sweep the kitchen, scrub the bathroom, or brush the cobwebs off my bedroom wall.