I’ve had several nightmares where I have plans to attend a formal event to but have no gown. I am on an extremely tight deadline but struggle to find the right store, floor or department for eveningwear. If I do get to the right place, the store is closing and it’s too last to find my dress. I’m desperate, I’m willing to take anything but my choices are hideous but somehow I’ll have to make it work. I wake up before I even attend the party. I can’t imagine what the dream means, I can only assume it speaks to my own vanity.

I don’t own a full-length mirror. I’ve often improvised by standing on top of the toilet cover to match a top with tights. Only when the two doors of the elevator seal shut like the mouth of a clam do I see my reflection for the first time. Sometimes the fashion risks I’ve taken that seemed to make sense in theory: in fashion magazines on lithe models, do not work out in practice: on clothes I bought at Forever 21 and Macy’s. By then it’s simply too late to turn around. There’s a special kind of nagging shame for looking ridiculous because you tried too hard. True fashionistas and meterosexuals persevere nonetheless.

I face walls of ceiling to floor mirrors in the dance studio, which unlike studios for exercise classes at a gym, have higher ceilings hence even bigger mirrors. The experience of stepping into a dance studio is overwhelming: when I walk in I feel like I’ve entered into a fish tank where I can see the reflections of myself and the other dancers on the glass walls. People from the outside press their noses to the glass door to watch us rehearse, practice, take class. We swim in unison, altogether and in small groups alternating across the tank, all swimming the same strokes. The dance school is like an aquarium. Before diving into my own dance, I peak into all the other fish tanks. Different sounds drum out, different movements are expressed, different species of fish, and different dress codes apply. On a visual level what struck me most were the variations in wardrobe. I expected that the movement, music and people attracted to each dance would be different, but I didn’t expect such differentiation in costume between each discipline and while just practicing.

I appreciated the meaning of these contrasts when translating into different genres myself. My outfits from Hip Hop did not translate into Contemporary dance or Ballet. There was a real difference between sneakers vs. slippers, tank tops vs. leotards, cargo pants vs. gauchos, hoodies vs. sweater-wraps and kneepads vs. legwarmers. And what do you get for dressing the part? Just like certain instruments compliment certain types of music, certain constructions of clothing accentuate and articulate the body in movements that make up a type of dance.

Looking the part is also about image and when you find yourself swimming among the big fish you want to at least look like you’re carrying big guns. Before the warm up begins the dancers start circling each other like sharks, they cut in and out stealing glances in silence between stretched legs and awkward paces. How you look could mean the difference between whether they step up and cut in front for a more desirable spot in front of the mirror. Looking like you know what you’re doing can only hold you for so as you can actually back it up! The girl wearing a plastic trash bag who does fantastic will be remembered as the most incredible dancer (that was oddly dressed in a trash bag.)

When I directed my own dance company I noticed there were two kinds of dancers and we were divided half and half. Half showed up looking like they just rolled out of bed, put on some worn out gym clothes and put their hair in a pony tail. The other half, including me, showed up in color coordinated, trendy dance outfits, with full make-up and jewelry. For my part, as the creative director and leader, I needed to portray a sense of control and project an attitude that would represent the company: attractive, sexy and professional.

That’s no excuse for why I still show up to dance in just as carefully coordinated outfits, full make-up and even jewelry when I no longer have a dance company. I’ve tried it both ways. While seeing myself in poorly proportioned, ill fitting or badly matched clothes may not have compromised the structural integrity of my dancing, I just looked odd to begin with. When you can use all the help you can get, why look like a desperate housewife?

Someone once said, “All the world’s a stage.” When I go out I certainly dress to impress: I don’t just try to look nice, I have an entire concept behind my look. The “fabulous” in my name stands for something and it’s not because I think I’m a fabulous writer or person. It’s because I love to surround myself with all things fabulous. What people don’t see is the considerable portion of my life I spend writing, reading and lounging at home in my mismatching, discolored, slogan t-shirts with bright, print pajama pants. Living in costume 100% of the time would be exhausting.

Now that I’ve thought this through I suppose becoming intimate with someone and letting them take all my clothes off exposes me and makes me more vulnerable than I ever realized. Maybe that's the key to unlocking the nightmare - to figure out who I'm dressing for and which part I'm meant to play.