I don’t understand why you make white dresses or pants. Or use white cloth to make women’s clothes. You must not be a woman; you must be a man, or an alien controlling a human being with a remote control. There is no way I or any self-respecting woman would buy a white piece of fabric to cover my bottom half.
Sometimes, this white fabric comes in the form of a skirt, some part of it is sheer, and I don’t understand why. But it is #trending so I assume that all the ~fashion~ bloggers have Instagrammed it before changing into something less hazardous. I will not do this “now you see it, now you don’t” game with cloth because that’s not my style. I would rather wear shorts.
Moreover, the outside world is dirty; what if I sit on bird shit, somewhere wet, (revealing the model and make of my underwear) somewhere muddy, or even worse–get my period?
Because, you see, my dear, myopic designers, I suffer from a disease called Period Paranoia. It is real. Once you get your period, you will never recover from it. It starts from your first underwear stain, especially if you were wearing a pastel colour, or, of course, white–it’s a hideous blight that is difficult to remove, and when not dealt with immediately, with soap and cold water, there will be a lingering, pale patch, a memory of your carelessness. There is nothing quite like your body punishing you for existing with a stain of this magnitude, especially on a piece of fabric you wear often.
Oh the fun doesn’t stop there. If your underwear somehow doesn’t manage to stop this crimson flood, your pants or jeans will be stained. I have been the subject of and have witnessed some embarrassing moments, but thank goodness the stain wasn’t obvious enough, because the fabric I happened to be wearing to cover my bottom is a dark colour. If I use my bag to hide it, I could pop into the washroom for a quick change. Knowing that some unobservant people will not notice, even without using my bag, reassures me.
But if I wear a white skirt, white pair of pants or romper, this crimson splatter will appear for all to see. Of course, there is no shame in having my period, but we are in an era where women are shamed for their normal bodily functions, and so, my instincts tell me that I should hide it as much as possible, like how I hide my farts and burps. I have to keep up the illusion that women are fragrant and ethereal fairies who make men feel inferior for their all too mortal secretions and expulsions.
While I am at it, I have to emphasise how transparent the colour white can be, because even without a sheer outer (and/or protective under) layer like some mullet skirts (see below) have, it is possible to see one’s VPL and one’s bottom, among other outlines, and one cannot even wear coloured underwear lest it shows through the translucent fabric.
(Image from Necessary Clothing)
If I could officially change the name of the colour white, I would call it weaksauce, or perhaps I would be more political and dub it The Lack of Freedom; for you see, I can only wear one colour beneath white, and that is, white. I become incredibly self-conscious when I wear white, and even when the red tsunami has not wracked my body like the demon it is, I will ask a close friend of mine to take a picture of my butt every ten seconds in case an epic stain results.
Ah, I have waxed lyrical about this, but I forgot about sharts (shit-farts for the uninitiated, sorry, TMI) and bouts of explosive diarrhoea that one may get because, let’s face it, sometimes, our stomach doesn’t agree with what we ate. A potentially grotesque explosion like this should be minimised as much as possible, thanks very much.
This is why I am writing this long-winded post today; it pains my heart to see a good design on a cute dress, only to realise that it is in that unfortunate colour–I may be able to create a bib using tissue to prevent stains on top, but there is very little I can do when it comes to my bottom, except, maybe, to wear a large diaper and waddle. It’s a waste of a good design, a waste of material, and a waste of money to produce a white dress/skirt/pants/bottom bit of clothing.
And don’t even get me started on the hassle that is the wedding dress.
Dear Clothing Manufacturers, the next time you see someone telling you to make a dress/skirt/pants/bottom with white fabric, do me a favour and bludgeon them over the head; being a woman is difficult enough, so why would I want to wear clothing that should come with a warning label?
Sincerely,
A woman who bleeds.
Featured image from Jamie