We Are Living in a Material World, and I am a Material Girl

I grew up believing that a girl needs three things to get through any situation.


A Great Lip Gloss

A Set of Pearls

Black Sunglasses

And when things really get rough, sometimes you need something extra :

The Perfect Dress

Walking into a room full of your peers, strangers, VIPs, or whomever it may be, is made easier because of the confidence these staple items bestow in you. It's a touch of class and elegance that can calm your nerves and put to rest one line of worry about how you look. After all, it worked for every stylish girl's icon:



Before Sex and the City there was Holly Go Lightly, an urban girl, not far off the farm, broke and aimless. She was the original fake-it-til-you-make-it girl, and between the beaus paying her to powder her nose (awkward), to the parties her mere presense made better, nobody knew who was underneath. Nobody knew who she was beneath the glamour.

It's not healthy, but sometimes it's necessary. It's the armor we can put on to face the world, to feel like we're perservering when we don't have a clue. We can look stylish and professional even when our job is crap, school is unsatisfying, and all we can see is our life unraveling. It may be shallow, but being able to look in the mirror and see something positive can be the one ray of hope in a dark situation.

But sometimes it's more than that. Sometimes by making the extra effort in an attempt to make yourself feel better, others start treating you differently.

Maybe the women in my family were right:
Look like a lady, be treated like a lady.

My younger sister is 17, and is in the midst of finding her own style. Some of it's indie chic with cute dresses, boots and scarves. Some of it is straight out of her boyfriend's wardrobe: skin tight pants, ugly loose graphic t-shirts, a plaid shirt, Buddy Holly glasses, a pleather 80s biker jacket, and smudged eyeliner. Oh, and can't forget the Chucks. Last week the two of them went to the movies, dressed quite similarly (though thankfully he didn't have the eyeliner). They looked like hooligans, and despite being good kids, were treated as such. Management harassed them the whole time, and threw them out of the R rated movie they were seeing. They let them into Toy Story 3-D, but then threatened to call the cops because my sister had some skittles leftover in her purse.

Clearly these people were overreacting, stereotyping, and being all around jerks, but this routinely happens to these two. It doesn't matter that they're in honors and AP classes, involved in peer mentoring programs, work with animals, and go to a Catholic school. They look like punks, and they're therefore treated as such.

Why? Because we're judged on how we look. We can make a statement and damn, "The Man," but personally, I left my teenage years behind, and that's just not as satisfying as it used to be. I want to feel good about myself because my outside reflects how I want myself to be inside.

With that in mind this past week I've made an effort with my appearance. I thought maybe if I look the part of a young professional (though I maintain I always did) my boss would start treating me like one. Perhaps I wouldn't be her equal, but she'd have to see me as someone she had to behave respectfully toward, and not treat me as her lackey.

It didn't work with her.

But it did with two other people.

The head of our legal/contracts department approached me and said, "I need a project done. I need someone with a brain, who can write, and can be meticulous. You're the only one who qualifies around here." Turned out she wanted me to write/compile/edit a major government contract, and she needed it done in a week. She didn't care that I had never done anything like that before or that I was mildly terrified by the prospect. She wanted someone confident and capable enough to complete the task she didn't trust anyone else to do.

And I did. I did it in a day. Flawlessly, I might add.

Look the part, get the part....

That same night, high on my success, and rocking an adorable cardigan and a ribbon in my hair, I approached a door leading out of the Performing Arts Building on my way to class. At the same time, a co-ed in a button down, tie, and snug fleece beat me to it, opened the door, and swept out his arm to gesure me through. As I said, "Thank you," he responded with "Your welcome, have a good evening." Now maybe it had nothing to do with how cute my outfit was, perhaps he was just raised well. But it stuck out enough for me to think of it a few days later, and for that small act of kindness to make my crappy week brighter.

It made me feel like a lady.

My boss might still use a peppy voice and treat my like a second grader she's employed for slave labor.

School is still a mess I'm trying really hard to not think about.

But for now, my lip gloss, pearls, and sunglasses are helping me fake-it until I figure it out.