Purim 2013.

Grin and bear it.

Scowl and bear it.

Disdain advice about the value of acting “cheerful.”

That’s how I entered the holiday.

But it’s not how I exited.

At Or Shalom, we planned a mildly gender-bending Purimschpiel, with men playing female roles and women playing male roles. The director was delighted when I agreed to play Haman, so he could cast the rabbi as a villain. No comment.

Unenthusiastically, I planned a simple Haman costume. Black leggings, black tee shirt, suspenders, and a big sign on my chest saying “I <3 me!” No shopping, no sewing, no emotional investment.

Two days before Purim I read a post on the Rabbis Without Borders blog by Rabbi Rachel Gurevitz. At a Purim party one year, she told a cross-dressed man, “Great costume!” And he replied, “It is the one day of the year when it is officially ok to wear clothes that make me feel most like me.  Without being ridiculed, or worrying about whether I’d be fired for wearing these clothes.” Rabbi Gurevitz ends the blog with a question: “What costume would you wear to reveal a deep truth of your innermost essence, sense of self, and identity?”

Two hours before the Purim schpiel I finally began to put my costume together. Looking for black leggings, I opened the plastic box where I keep my old dance gear. I reached right past the leggings and grabbed black fishnet stockings. For pants, I donned black shorts held up by suspenders. Instead of a tee shirt I wore a string tank top. Over it I draped a chiffon “royal robe” trimmed with a black feather boa. On my feet, I put borrowed high-heeled shoes. I felt I delightfully and subversively feminine (in appearance).

And I realized: if I didn’t worry so much about making a professional impression, I would dress much more femme than I already do. Which is already rather femme.

But I didn’t look much like Haman. Yet.

Way in a deep corner of my closet sits my secret collection of costumy clothes: bizarre thrift shop finds, century-old gowns worn by family women, unique dresses sewn from scarves and scraps, and the chiffon “royal robe” with the feathery bottom. My academic gown hangs there too, along with my academic medals – regalia worn only at graduation, to impress parents and donors with the quality of a university’s faculty. I lifted the medals off their hanger, put three around my neck and pinned three to my tank top. Now I could say, “I’m Haman! The King promoted me!”

Super femme and super professional at the same time. Clothes that make me feel most like me. Expressing essence, sense of self, and identity.

Why can’t I dress like this every day? I’m 54 years old, with good professional creds, five graduate degrees, and long skinny legs. Who effing cares if I wear fishnets? They don’t erase my accomplishments. I won’t be fired, and I don’t care if I’m ridiculed.

Sure, when I was a young working woman, professional dress was essential to proving I was as good as any man. But those days are over. After thirty-three years of full-time professional work, I’ve nothing left to prove; the onus is no longer on me. I’d challenge any man to be as competent as a wise, mature woman.

Had I been excited about Purim, I would have created an elaborate Haman costume. But I didn’t. Instead, at the last minute, I pulled a “me” costume out of the box. Put it on, took a look, and saw my grown-up self.

Grin and wear it.

Photo: Sandra Cohen