You may have noticed a look sweeping the red carpets that can only be described as "original poster for the 1995 film Showgirls." The sky-high slit is in, most notably worn by Bella Hadid on multiple recent occasions, and often paired with fabric or cuts that make it easy for that slit to fly open. And, Hadid and the rest keep making headlines for their revealing "wardrobe malfunctions" when the slit moves just a teensy bit to the side. Is it possible to avoid flashing, or is that just what these dresses do?
I wanted to see whether a "wardrobe malfunction" was inevitable in a dress like this. Also, let's face it, the high-slit is sexy as hell. But walking around midtown Manhattan with my vulva just one gust-of-wind-from-a-passing-bus away from the world was a nerve-wracking prospect. Also, I'm not an idiot. I recognize that dresses like this are not designed to be practical for everyday use. But presumably anyone wearing them to an event would still have to do things like descend stairs, sit down in public view, use their legs to propel themselves forward, or exist in the presence of wind.
As soon as I tried on the dress, from Michelle Mason, I knew I was in over my head. I had not accounted for the equally low back, or the smooth, silky fabric that showed every body ripple. I had to borrow silicone nipple covers to avoid seeming fully nude (shout out to the ELLE.com office for being the type of place where multiple people have silicone nipple covers in their desks). Oh, and I got my period that morning, so I was at my most bloated and most at risk for underwear disasters. Fantastic.
I started off doing what many stars of the silver screen do in these dresses—posing. Inside, it wasn't so bad. Sitting at my desk, I had full control over the slit, and even if it started riding a little high, I could always roll under my desk.
Outside, though, this quickly turned into a fraught endeavor. Sitting, I couldn't keep my legs open (obviously), but crossing them made the satin-y fabric slip to one side, revealing enough of my thigh that it might legally have been my ass at that point. Add to that that I decided to have some iced coffee. I thought of taking Bella's advice and eating ice cream in the dress, but the dress was borrowed, and I forgot to bring a Lactaid.
Posing standing wasn't much easier. I remembered Bella standing awkwardly in this style by lifting one side of her skirt. It was very dramatic when I first tried, but a breeze soon decided that it was time for me to be nude from the waist down in full view of anyone watching (it was a warm day in Central Park, so a lot of people were watching). It takes a lot to turn heads in New York City, and most days I live my life with the comfort that I can go about my business with a sort of public anonymity. It's what lets me cry on the subway with such ease. But now I was, physically and emotionally, exposed.
Walking was even harder. Even if there wasn't wind to contend with, trying to walk at my normal New York pace made my skirt blow backwards, prying the slit apart to reveal my thong in the front. I tried walking slower, but it was still an issue. Honestly, is there a way to wear this dress without a wardrobe malfunction? Because I'm running out of options.
Stairs were completely out of the question. Anyone walking up toward me was in for a full crotch shot.
I was getting a little nervous at this point, because all the while I noticed some men leering, and one made a comment about my body. I expected that to happen, because I've lived through 30 New York City summers and have gotten much worse from men (like the infamous Man Rubbing His Erection Into My Thigh On The 1 Train experience of 2012), but the looks and whispers started to make my silly endeavor feel a little more shameful. I normally have no problem in revealing clothing (as my decision to even embark on this ridiculous task proves). I'm here for low cut tops and booty shorts and never worry if I let a nip slip on the beach. But the stares and smiles and lingering the dress inspired suddenly made me very aware of my body, and in that moment, made me wish it didn't exist.
But before I could run back to my office to throw on an oversized sweatshirt and let my heart rate slow down, women came to my rescue. By catcalling me. Standing on the sidewalk, I heard a woman call out "Oooh, look at those legs, girl!" Later, another one simply said "you look amazing." Four or five times, women called out compliments, and it completely boosted my self-esteem.
It's weird to think that the same behavior that shut me down coming from men could lift me up coming from women, but there's gender dynamics for you. Catcalling may be inspired by attraction, but it's about power. When a man catcalls a woman he's enforcing generations of men wielding power over women, letting you know that he's watching, he's assessed your body, and he could take it if he wanted. Even if that's not his intention, the entire history of gender relations puts it in that context.
The women catcalling me probably weren't doing it out of sexual attraction, but even if they were, their comments inherently had a different tone. We are on an equal playing field. To be frank, no matter what a woman shouts at me, I'm never afraid she's going to follow me home and kill me. Instead, their comments reminded me that while, yes, this dress was going to get me stares, they weren't trying to claim ownership. My body was mine. The street was ours. I didn't have to let men claim the right to public space.
I have decided that there is no such thing as a "wardrobe malfunction" when it comes to the super high slit. This is how these dresses are designed to function, and anyone who wears them on a red carpet knows exactly what they're doing. After all, what's the risk of a cooch shot when the ones of your bare thigh are so incredible? We all make sacrifices.
