Bloody Good Chap got the shock of his life when I called him into the changing rooms of a trendy store in LA to find a blonde chick in a sparkly gold dress.

He did a double take,

no way his ripped-shorts, converse-addicted girlfriend would ever be found in such a feminine dress.

He was very unsure.

“But when on earth will you wear it, Dre?”

I was pretty sure there would be no appropriate occasion.

BGC is usually a very reliable source of fashion advice because he doesn’t lie about how good or not good I look. Much.

But on this one occasion, I overruled his verdict because I was pretty sure the shock was clouding his judgement.

And I was on a mission to buy something girlish.

We’d just been hanging out with a bunch of couples in a remote Mexican destination and the women all dressed up every evening for dinner in stunning dresses while I rocked up in shorts and singlets, and I felt like a stupid noob.

I’ve long known that

I’ve avoided dressing nicely to avoid the attention of unwanted men and the scorn of the countless unknown women who I had pre-judged as judgey.

Until this week in Mexico where

I was inspired by all the beautiful women owning their beauty with no apology.

It was empowering.

So I very hesitantly bought the sparkly-as-hell dress.

But left the tags on just in case I decided to never wear it and resell it.

But then I womanned up and wore it to my mate’s engagement party, because I knew I could blend in a bit there. I left the tags on scratching my back until 5 minutes before we left, because, just in case.

Just before we left the house I pulled on an old denim jacket to dress it down/ hide.

My heart raced as I tall shoe wobbled up the stairs to the party.

Even though everyone there was dressed in beautiful things,

it took BGC a long time to convince me to part with the denim jacket and expose my very shouldery shoulders and sparkly neck thingee holding up my dress.

The very same one I’d considered unpicking all the sparkly beads from just a couple of hours before.

BGC firmly retracted his changing room verdict and told me I looked amazing. He was very happy to have a dressed up girlfriend for a change.

I felt panic.

But a few champagnes in, I was blending in like a wobbly, getting-louder-by-the-glass chameleon.

But that didn’t stop me stuttering some ridiculous crap to a girl who commented on my dress in the bathrooms about how I never dress up and that it was very un-me to wear something so sparkly.

Way to own it, Andrea.


Eventually I decided that dressing up and facing my fear was empowering.

And it made me walk less hunchy.

We’ve got to stop apologising for ourselves as women.

I admire all the women in the world who own their bodies with confidence and don’t apologise for how they look.

Feminism isn’t about becoming more masculine and judging women who own their femininity.

It’s being whoever the fuck we feel like being and not apologising for it.

Let the judgers judge.

Let the complementers compliment.

(Try not to talk it down awkwardly like I did where possible).

If you fear nice dress-wearing as I do,

I dare you.


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