Over the weekend, I found myself giggling with two longtime friends as we mugged at a bathroom mirror while trying on outfit after outfit.
The clothes are from my friend Jennifer’s closet. She called us over because she was ready to clear some space from her ample wardrobe and wanted us, her friends with similar figures, to get first dibs.
At a certain point, I was trying on a cute little summer dress, and I hardly recognized the woman in the mirror. She didn’t look like me at all. Her cheeks were rosy from laughing, and her eyes sparkled with happiness and relaxation.
When I grew up in the 80s, I formed opinions about myself alongside Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Nutra-Sweet, Lean Cuisine, and Suzanne Somers with that crazy Thighmaster contraption. The message was clear: your body is wrong. Your body is something you need to fix and change. I can’t help but think that is at least part of the reason why I avoid mirrors to this day. Shopping for clothes is a chore I don’t enjoy in the least — I can’t seem to ease my way into a store’s dressing room without self-loathing pushing its way in beside me.
Yet here I was in Jennifer’s bathroom, surrounded by my dear friends, and my inner critical voice was silenced to a low murmur.
Jennifer and I have known each other for 32 years. We were assigned to each other as roommates in our freshman year of college and have been friends ever since. Jennifer has been an ongoing gift in my life, not only because she introduced me to my husband, but because she is the friend who consistently loved me, challenged me, and supported me the longest.
I don’t have time to go into all the ways Jennifer is a one-of-a-kind person, but I’ll start with this: she has the most beautiful, natural head of intensely red, curly hair. It is the outward iteration of her inner beauty: like her hair, she is vibrant, brilliant, and a little bit wild. Her laugh is usually the loudest in the room. Whether she’s known you for 30 minutes or 30 years, she will pull you in and hug you as though she’s been waiting to give you that hug for years.
Nothing about Jennifer is dull. Her language can be as colorful as she is — something I adore about her. (“Never trust someone who doesn’t swear,” my husband says.) She is honest, hardworking, successful at a high-level job, and she still always carves out time for friends, family, and volunteer work. She is generous beyond words.
Which is why I am standing in her bathroom, admiring myself in a soft red sweater and a colorful, flowy skirt that used to hang in Jennifer’s closet. I turn this way and that, admiring the rich colors and the way the skirt moves with me.
I will never be able to repay her for these beautiful new-to-me threads. Yet, she somehow makes me feel as though I’m doing her a favor.
Clothes don’t change a person. I know that. I’m still me beneath these soft fabrics. But I can’t help but feel different, as though I’m putting on a shield of armor that my critical voice can’t permeate.
More fittingly, maybe these clothes represent one of Jennifer’s big, warm hugs. It’s as though I can feel the gentle weight of her hands on my shoulders as she tells me, “Go on. You’ve got this. Be bold and don’t apologize.”
