Nerd 4 Life

Let's establish something that may already be obvious: I have always been a nerd. In grade school, the "cool" kids smelled it right away and found in me their punching bag. I'm talking the works: Tripping me in the hallways, making fun of my non-Guess? jeans, inviting me to parties that didn't exist. The humiliations were daily and, gotta give credit, imaginative. Kindergarten till about 7th grade was the absolute worst, and my social life only got better when I ended up in a large high school, where one could find safety in anonymity and could also find fellow nerds. It didn't hurt that I also discovered and adopted a Goth, fuck-them-all mentality. I'm not Goth anymore, but if you see me wearing all black, I'm not in any mood. Luckily for my friends and coworkers, this is an infrequent event.

The reason this comes up now is because of a trip to a clothing boutique this past weekend. My clothes are becoming not only unfashionable but also kind of ratty, and I decided it was time to shop. So I went in to this cute little old house/boutique, and immediately, it was like 5th grade. I never knew what it was that so clearly marked me as one of the uncool, but whatever it is persists, and the saleslady honed in on it so fast that I never had a chance. A kind of tilt of her head, an appraising glance, and an insincere offer to help. "Can I help you with something," said she, of the hip spiky haircut and thick black glasses frames. (Glasses that are so nerdy they make you cool. A paradox, which my inability to comprehend undoubtedly contributes to my status as a true nerd, Nerdus veritas, rather than the hip nerd pretender, Nerdus mimeticus.) It may as well have been, "Can you come to my party?" (Girlish giggles heard offstage.)

It's funny, because I'm in the store so I don't look so helplessly plain and untrendy, but then I'm made to feel unwelcome. Like I'm not worthy to wear these clothes. Like I will ruin them with my nerd stink. Catch-fucking-22, huh?

I'll probably end up going to J. Crew this week to fulfill my sartorial needs. The people at J.Crew are also somewhat of the formerly popular set, but their clothes are basic, functional, and do not come with elaborate ties, buttons or instructions on how to wear them. This is one of the things I could never handle with high fashion--the ambiguity of the garment's purpose. Is it a skirt? A scarf? Both? I have several friends (yes, this includes you, Carol) I've shopped with who have this amazing knack for understanding exactly how to wear whatever shred of fabric they've pulled off the rack, and how to look amazing in it, and how to accessorize. I watch from the sidelines, hoping to take away some techniques or helpful hints on how to mimic this assuredness in the future, as I would a cooking show. (Whip the eggwhites until they are stiff and glossy, but not dry.) These are instructions that are clear, universal, that require no inborn talent. But even after watching my professional shopper friends, I have learned little if anything. More like watching a really good flirt, or improv comedian. It has less to do with the application of knowledge, and more to do with a trait of personality. So I continue to fumble with a shirt (or is it a jacket?) that costs more than some of the vacations I have taken. I suppose this means I will always incur the puzzled stare of the salesgirl, who always seems to be thinking: Poor thing, doesn't she know that goes on her head?

I'm probably too developmentally stunted at this point to really learn, so my fashion will most likely stay basic, with maybe some daring accessories. I guess I'm OK with this, though I feel like this betrays the very idea of fashion--that it's supposed to be some representation of the inner you, of WHO YOU REALLY ARE. And who I really am is not an equestrian bored at home in the Hamptons. I am a quirky, sensitive, laser-sharp observer of human behavior who is really quite non-traditional, opinionated and open-minded. Which shoots that whole "clothes make the man" theory to hell in my case.

Not that my having difficulty dressing myself closes the case for why I am unmistakably nerdy. This is something I have yet to figure out. What is it that makes me a nerd? I am decently attractive, do not like science fiction (overly), and exercise proper hygiene. I listen to contemporary indie rock-n-roll, read books and enjoy cooking. There are, of course, subspecies of nerdom, and in my case, I can only guess that it's not my lifestyle or appearance (besides the clothes thing) that make me a nerd.

No, in my case, it's something no makeover show can remedy. Unfortunately, I am the nerd--not my house or clothes or car. It's me. There is something of the outsider about me--something of the skeptical alien that unnerves people and makes them resist accepting me as one of their own. Maybe the kind of nerd I am is really this: Nerdus veritas inquisitus. My favorite word in all of English is Why?, which doesn't go over so well in some circles.

Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, being a nerd is pretty threatening, no matter whether you really like Star Wars or wear ugly shoes or like reading dictionaries of etymology, as I do. All of these things directly contravene the accepted, conventional choices that most people live their lives by. If I spend my time reading a dictionary and I tell this to someone who isn't sure that their choice to watch Monday Night Football on digital cable is the best use of their time, they might find that distressing. They might want me to go away, or at least they might want to try and reassure themselves by denigrating my lifestyle, the things I'm interested in.

Maybe my seeming lack of confidence in a fashionable boutique is simply evidence of a confidence elsewhere. Maybe my return to J.Crew for basic, functional clothing is an implicit statement that I'm pretty sure I know where I want to spend my time, and it's not obsessing over clothing.

All I know is that were I to ever inadvertently wear a skirt on my head, I would still know who I really am.