What Not to Wear, Muslim-Style

I cut myself shaving this morning.

Then I thanked Jesus that I am not a hemophiliac (because: while wearing a Spongebob Squarepants band-aid might raise a few eyebrows, rivulets of blood petulantly refusing to coagulate running down my leg would raise a couple more). My clothes were thrown on while they were still damp because my affinity for a black wardrobe and my long torso that turns everything into a belly shirt requires that laundry be done in cold and hung to dry and because I was too lazy to laundry until I was totally out of clothes, so it was damp clothes or my housecoat.

Finally, I raced off to the bus stop hungry because I chose blow-drying over breakfast, and had just enough time to put make-up on in the car (note: while stopped) before my bus came.

In other words: a pretty typical PM morning.

Later, less discombobulated and more expansively possessed of free time, I strolled down Nicollet enjoying the farmer's market. And, as is not uncommon in a city with the highest population of Somalis in North America, I saw a woman wearing a burka.

And, as is also not uncommon when I see women wearing hajibs or burkas, I was insanely jealous.

Now I get that to some they are symbols of male and/or state and/or religious oppression. I wouldn't want someone to force me to cover up so as to keep my male betters surrounding me from being corrupted by something so impure as my skin. But I can't help but see them as being tremendously liberating all the same.

Because how much of my morning was similarly dictated by oppressive sartorial standards? I spend at least half an hour every day doing something about my appearance for other people. I replace perfectly serviceable clothing with more fashion-forward items (well, slightly more fashion-forward - I shop at consignment stores, so I'm a season behind at best) just so I'll fit in. I shave my legs because, well, it's kind of ew.

(Aside: this is why I love Mennonites. They - well, the die-hard MCCers - totally don't care. They wear whatever is in their closet, and when it wears out, they replace it with whatever's at the thrift store that day.)

Imagine the freedom: no worrying about hair colour or length, no sighing because your skirt doesn't fit due to being a little heavy on the Old Dutch, no Spongebob Squarepants bandaids because you never have to shave your legs.

Laundry? A breeze - there's so much cloth there, shrinkage isn't an issue. You'd need, what, seven outfits max?

Now I suppose I could experience somewhat of the same effect with a nun's habit. Or army fatigues. Or a mechanic's jumpsuit. Or a school uniform. Complaining bitterly to a professor once, I lamented that we should all just wear brown jumpsuits. Truly, brown jumpsuits would be my dream. Step in, zip up, and wash-rinse-repeat the next day.

She laughed at me and observed, "nothing is stopping you from wearing brown jumpsuits, you know."

I guess. But I'm far too shallow and proud and fearful to do something like that. I could never announce to the world "I DON'T CARE!" (because, of course, that would be a lie). Instead I just muddle along, limping and squishing my way through a world of shaving cuts and damp clothes because being uncomfortable is better than being different.

But - oh - to have an acceptable reason to wear what is essentially a tent with a peephole. Then life would be easy, right?