I must away most of today to various things, all of them involving me being smartly dressed. This is not a problem, my wardrobe teams with smart clothing, going to meet potential employers/funeral/lecture garb I have aplenty, what I DON’T seem capable of doing is buying smart/casual no I didn’t fall out of a hedge backwards thank you, clothing.
I don’t know how other women do it. They pair casual trousers with a nice shirt or blouse and hey presto chango they look like the stepped off the set of some white woman of privilege show. I have developed a Idée fixe about it. I look at wardrobes in magazines, where crisp white shirts hang against pale delicate wools and floaty dresses and think ‘where is the bloody fleece? Where are the countless shapeless t-shirts from Dunnes/Pennys? The collection of tights, some ancient, some still in packets? The jeans that are falling apart they’ve been worn so often? Where’s all the sports clothes? The going out clothes? The clothes people give you that you’re afraid to throw out in case they ever ask why you never wear it, so you keep it in terror of offending them? Where’s all that crap?
Rolling as I am towards 40, I feel ought to do SOMETHING about this state of affairs. But god damn it, I do so hate to be uncomfortable in any way when I work. But I also hate looking like a hobo.
I’m going to have to do a cull, a vicious clothing cull. I will throw out shit, I will stop hoarding useless unwearable tat. I WILL buy a dainty cardigan or two, more fitted shirts. PANTS! I will buy Pants!
No doubt when I have accrued all this, I will promptly put my jeans and a fleece on and admire my wardrobe, before closing the doors, sighing in relief.