This past Sunday, I walked to Franklin Street, enjoying the nice, cool air of a morning filled with worship and family. But I have to admit that I felt like I stuck out, and was unsure why. Maybe I sensed that the churchgoers could smell my atheism, or that they could tell from my slightly disheveled hair that I had been in bed until noon. Nevertheless, something deep inside of me stirred that day, and I struggled to comprehend what it could possibly be.
It hit me a day later, after much contemplation and anguish, that I had more to fear than I thought. I realized that on that holy Sunday I was wearing... the romper. The one that prompts my parents to hold their breath when they’re with me in public. The one I wear in my Tinder profile picture. My demonic, seductive romper. The problem with this romper is that if I get too careless, it flaps open to reveal some slight cleavage and the bralette I’m wearing underneath. My parents and friends alike have told me to “watch out” for the exposure and to “keep my presents wrapped.” Oh, the fun word play that emerges from sexist ideals!
I did not know the horrors that could have come from wearing this romper on Sunday, because, as my friends and parents feared the most, it transformed me. I hate to admit this, but on that Sunday, my romper infected me with a shameful desire to become a prostitute. I know, the horror. The horror of a girl showing some skin and eventually turning into a prostitute is just plain unimaginable, but it happened.
It’s such a shame that in this misogynistic, woman-shaming society I had to be so stupid as to wear an outfit that showed off a bit of my skin, sexualized not by biology, but by social constructions. How downright ridiculous of me to wear that outfit, not realizing that I was giving men a reason to look me up and down. How silly of me to allow myself to attain this prostitute attitude, because obviously prostitutes could never be women trying to make a living to serve a higher purpose for themselves. Prostitution could never involve a woman embracing her body, or smartly manipulating the sexist urges of men to help advance her own goals and dreams. No, I let the romper lead me to a path of destruction and turmoil.
I am unsure of what moment will be the one to seal the deal and send me on my way to prostitution. Could it happen when I start another open conversation about my Tinder adventures? Possibly. Or could it happen the next time I tell a boy I’m attracted to him before he shows affection for me? Likely. I’m not sure of the final ingredient needed for my career as a prostitute, but I will inform friends and readers alike of when I begin this shameful undertaking.
