Opposites Attract:
Gowns & Crocs Edition
She had a gown for every royal in the kingdom. I had an oversized black tee for hiding toddler fingerprints, mystery stains, titty sweat, and fat rolls. We both found our uniforms.
At three years old, she didn’t play dress-up. She entered with BOSS BITCH in her veins. If she didn’t have the exact gown she needed, she would snatch something vaguely color-coordinated from her closet and gaslight us all into believing it was Belle’s. Don’t fight it. She will win.
“This is trifficult,” she’d say, arms tangled in a puff-sleeve fever dream. So I stepped in. I zipped, buttoned, adjusted the crown, and retrieved the shoe. I was the footman who knew my place.
My uniform was still pretty new to me. I had lost 80 pounds and, for the first time in years, I finally felt comfortable wearing shorts. Then the world reopened the gates of fashion and said, “Hey girlie, bike shorts and big tees are back.” And I said, “Finally, a trend for the emotionally exhausted.”
I grabbed onto that look like it was a life raft. Leggings had carried me for years. Respectfully, they did their time. But the first day I pulled on a pair of bike shorts, something in me fell right into place. This was where my butt is MEANT to be...
My Crocs were a slightly more embarrassing surrender. I used to hate on them! “I’d NEVER wear Crocs,” I said with my full chest. Now I own almost nothing but Crocs. Don’t ask me what happened. Style? Evolution? A crisis? Whatever. My favorites are the platforms because I’m five feet tall on a tall day and my husband is six feet tall on a short day. If I don’t level up, the man is going to have back problems from trying to kiss me.
Our uniforms suited our current lifestyles. Sis’s came with costume changes. Mine hardly changed at all. We supported each other’s choices, and we hyped each other up.
“You gotta present me...” And I lived for that shit. Sometimes I presented her as the Queen of England with sixteen made-up middle names. Sometimes I channeled my inner WWE announcer and shouted her entrance like she was about to body slam a dragon. Occasionally, I introduced her in various animal languages. It depended on the vibe. It was ALWAYS a vibe.
She didn’t just wear the outfit. She became the character. If she was Elsa, I was Anna. If she was a troll, I was a tree stump with emotional depth. Everyone got assigned a role, and she remembered it. She switched identities like a method actor on speed. It was honestly a little terrifying how quickly she could shapeshift.
Maybe that’s why I loved watching her become someone new every twenty minutes. She was creating, commanding, becoming, and I was just lucky to be part of her kingdom. This child had the kind of imagination that could power a small planet.
I could see it in some people’s eyes. They didn’t get it. They got annoyed when she insisted on calling them Hei Hei or Cloud Guy. They rolled their eyes when she corrected them for breaking character. They didn’t see it for what it was: an entire universe in motion, built from the glitter-dusted gears of a tiny mind.
I know how quickly those little comments add up. My own style was dulled by the way people spoke about each other. What looked good, what didn’t, what somebody could or couldn’t pull off, and what was considered acceptable to wear outside the house. Eventually, getting dressed became less about what I liked and more about avoiding commentary.
She’s four and a half now, and I will never do that to her. If she wants to wear a gown to Target, she’s wearing a gown to Target. Why the fuck not? YOLO. If she wants to be a princess, dragon, mermaid hybrid and rename me Sloppy Joe the Friendly Shadow, then that’s my name for the day. End of discussion.
It took me well into adulthood to stop dressing for a role I never wanted. She already knew the rules at three. Wear what feels right, become whoever the hell you want, and make sure somebody properly announces your entrance.
I’ll be beside her in my bike shorts and Crocs, appropriately dressed for the position.