Dressed to... advertise?

So, I'm compulsively concerned about "putting on airs." Mostly, this means I want to dress and behave in a way that reflects my ability and experience. Usually this means that I go to the other extreme and present myself in exactly the way necessary to completely undersell. It's part of my nature, which has its ups and downs.

My most glaring example being tango shoes - I refused to purchase them for over a year after I started tango. Partially because I was afraid that a sign of commitment such as purchasing specialty shoes would be one of those inevitable death knells in my relationship with tango (isn't that always the way?) Partially because, I was a begining dancer from a small town who wasn't "ready" to own real tango shoes. There's some validity to this - until you reach a certain level, the benefits of a perfectly crafted shoe are lost on you. In fact, until you reach that certain level, these shoes - with their skinny little heels, slippery soles, and altitude scaling heights - are more hinderance and hazard. The more you dance, the more strength and technique you develop to protect your knees and ankles from shoe-associated injuries. But there are also deep social implications. Dancers need a quick means of identifying experienced dancers between tandas, and the ability of a potential lead/follow to "fit in" by picking up on all the subtle customs and fashions of a particular group immediately identifies the people you want to dance with from the ones whose eyes you won't be meeting. I did not want to advertise above my abilities, only to dissapoint potential partners. I wanted - if anything - to be a delightful surprise. I still sometimes feel a little affronted when my beginner students walk into class with shiny new Comme Il Fauts.

Similarly, in Buenos Aires, I was so careful, always opting for subtler, more casual, but smarter. Because it is such a highly populated tango-tourist location, the standards for identifying veteran dancers become increasingly subtle and under-articulated to the untrained eye. I doubt I ever manged to transcened the tourista look, but at least got closer to attracting the milongueros over the draguers as I increased my style savvy. There are even variations between appropriate fashion between milongas, so it's not uncommon for dancers to change between Canning and La Viruta - switch out the CIFs for practica shoes and the dresses for harem pants and bring on the nuevo. At festivals and in Seattle, I waffle. I suppose I feel enough at home here to not be as concerned, but there's still a bit of a hesitancy to egregiously overdress or break some of the laws of tango fashion and thus advertise myself as a rank beginner.

This is a pretty common mentality in the ballroom world, where a costume designer will aggresively solicit your patronage, but be equally bold in clicking her tongue at you when you attempt to purchase something that is utterly "inappropriate" for a cute little bronze or silver dancer. Not that costume inflation isn't rampant in some arenas, but there is definitely an underlying attitude that the sorts of costumes that lower level amatuers wear are cheaper, less revealing (thank god, since the high standards of fitness don't really carry over to beginners and boy does fat jiggle in a good jive or samba), and adorned with murkier stones.

Dress has always been a way of identifying skill and status within a subculture, whether it be subliminal or overt. Karate, ballet, various scouts, or - well- the myriad joyousness that I'm told is highschool... all stratify via uniform. It's an inherent part of our culture and reflective of a deep-seeded human psychology.

All of this is a lead up to saying that I've finally given in and bought myself some running clothes. Now, in running I don't actually have to worry about identifying or advertising myself in any tangible manner. I don't run as a social activity. I don't need partners in order to to it. I don't even race, or hang out with other runners. But the attitude endures. There's just something about the overabundance of overweight, miserable-but-determined *runners* who slog around my neighborhood with raptor arms, kicky legs, jelly bellies and bobbing heads; it's something that makes me not want to associate myself with them as people who take themselves seriously. And these sorts always seem to have perfectly coordinated little running outfits. I still feel like a novice - a bronze level runner if you will, as yet undeserving of the switch from korean rhinestones to full-on swarovskis. The running shoes I had to buy, although they are hardly status symbols. The clothes: I forestalled in my sweats and ill fitting cotton tank tops for as long as humanly possible. For months. All the way through last week's heatwave. Slogging through the sauna with soggy sweats slapping my legs was ... something. I usually weigh myself before and after a run to figure out how much I need to rehydrate and these were fascinating runs in that I seemed to gain weight during the run.

I finally have clothes that fit, clothes with built in bras and materials touting themselves as "moisture wicking." I refuse to buy actual track shorts, but I did work my way up to capri-cut pants to share my lovely paper-white calves with the world. Of course all my running clothes are black, because I am a Seattle runner at heart and embrace my coffee-swilling-goth roots. Plus, it saves me the frivolty of having coordinated outfits. Black matches black, but all black is never intentional so much as easier.

It feels good, this not stumbling through workouts in damp and ill-fitting cotton. Looks good too, based on my entirely ill-informed vision of myself in the gym mirrors (which I swear have been treated in such a way as to cut down about five pounds on anyone who glimpses in them and pose an interesting counterpoint to the scales which tend to be about two pounds more sensitive to weight than other scales). I'm not sure I'm as impressed by the "wicking" qualities of my tank, but the built in bra and the general lack of chafing more than makes up for that. I don't know if this means I'm taking myself more seriously, but I am certainly conforming just a little more to the part. What next? I shudder to think.