Tags

, , , , ,

A.K.A…’I have NOTHING to wear’, ‘I have NO clothes’ and ‘Fuck Off, out of my bedroom.’

The Clothes She Wears by Stacy Vitallo

Learning to cope with those ‘I hate every-fucking-thing in my wardrobe’ moments.

I’ve had quite a few of those moments of intense pain in my bedroom over the past few weeks.

Those moments where you’ve tried every combination of separates in your wardrobe and even every dress you swore you’d donate to Vinnies because you wouldn’t be seen dead in it now.

‘Maybe…just maybe…it’ll look ok today?’ you think.

But of course it doesn’t. it’s still too tight, too short, or too young and so you lose it big-time and forbid anyone from even contemplating entry into your bedroom until you’ve pulled yourself together.

I’m no stranger to this type of middle-aged shopping danger as you will remember from my previous posts about shopping here and here.

The problem with this time of the year is that Christmas throws up events that you don’t normally go to, where running pants and sloppy tee-shirts simply won’t suffice.

Every girl (given the choice) wants to wear a new outfit on Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve.

And I was spoilt this Christmas, when the old man prevented any possibility of receiving my shell-shocked look of horror on Christmas morning when I opened his present, (generally caused by his inept attitude of ‘I have absolutely no idea of who you are or what you like after twenty years of marriage’), and gave me some limited access to the credit card instead.

TO SHOP!

Every girl’s dream! I could already visualise myself in some flowing black designer evening dress, laughing sexily as he snapped the box on my accompanying diamond accessories before I even hit Pitt St Mall – (or rather more likely, shouting ‘WTF did you do that for, arsehole?’ and storming off in a mood).

But shopping’s not MY dream any longer, apparently.

Don’t get me wrong, I can still shop until I drop and I still love browsing and trying everything on in the store. But if you looked closely at my ratio of ‘time spent in the shops’ to ‘actual purchases’, I don’t have a very high success rate.

Because nothing looks quite right anymore.

Maybe it’s because I’m still drawn to the mutton clothes I used to wear in my twenties and thirties, but nothing I like seems to suit my new middle-aged shape these days.

BODY SAYS NO….

I did have some success. On Day 2 I bought lots of undies. I had been determined to revamp my underwear drawer for some time with a selection that was more sexy flattering, yet still comfortable. And after substantial research and a lot of misses (that I will have to pass onto NC, because they still ride up my bum or don’t absorb the muffin top fully), I finally decided that the ‘high-leg’ was the style for ‘my bits and me’ and bought in volume. (I recommend the Jockey ones).

On day 3, I also found a dress for New Year’s Eve. It was obviously pure fluke and typically the only dress in the whole of Westfield that wasn’t on sale but (thank you, God) it did fit, wasn’t too short, didn’t expose too much breast tissue or thigh dimpling, and it was black, which is my safety zone colour.

Day 6, and admittedly now feeling desperate, I found a beautiful sequinned, white silky top in the Country Road sale, but then smeared foundation on the neckline and fish sauce down the front panel during its first outing.

Nevertheless, I convinced myself that I was on a roll. If I could find the most elusive piece of clothing known to middle-aged woman, A TANKINI TOP THAT FITTED, (to replace my eight-year-old one that is now so stretched and shapeless, it doubles as a flotation device in the water), I knew that my work would be done.

What can I say? Shopping for swimmers brings me out in a rash.

The only good thing about shopping for a new swimming costume is that you get to burn off a ton of calories in the changing room just squeezing your boobs into apparel evidently made for stick insects – an easy way to justify the evening’s wine consumption.

I dragged my middle-aged body from shop to shop and tried on a multitude of fun-size, ‘you’re having a laugh’ tankinis. It’s astounding how complicated the art of tankini design has become. There were different cup styles, padding, strap styles and swathes of superfluous fabric built into the front panel to conceal the post-Christmas salt and Balsamic vinegar chip tummy.

I must have shed at least 200 calories just positioning my empty teabags into what were often vast cups, and throttling the muffin top with serious lycra.

I had wanted a tankini top in black, a slimming colour I thought, because I believed it might help me to merge better with the sea of beautiful young people in their itsy-bitsies on the balcony of North Sydney pool. Unfortunately, the only costume that fit me was a vibrant shade of burnt orange, so I am now the beacon on the balcony at North Sydney pool, guiding the flotillas of boats from Manly to Circular Quay.

My work was done. As much as I love shopping, my confidence has been dented again and I need time to debrief and work out my physical priorities now.

Do I put fashion before comfort or comfort before fashion?

Fuck, I’m getting old.

The Clothes She Wears photo courtesy of stacyvitallo at http://www.flickr.com

 

Advertisements