The old man gave up on buying me a proper birthday present a long time ago. He will tell you it’s because I’m fussy and difficult (and probably, a complete bitch), but basically it’s because he has no fucking idea (see previous post), and I would end up disappointed that he had wasted valuable shopping money on something I wouldn’t be seen dead in.
So what we’ve agreed on is that he gives me a token gift to open on the day (which I look suitably appalled at) – this year it was a dead bunch of flowers and a card that somewhere in his planning he had forgotten to sign – and he also allows me access to a guilt-free wad of cash from the bank, to (his words) waste at the local mall.
Another reason why men must have come from fucking Mars, is that he simply doesn’t get the whole clothes shopping thing, particularly the aspect of buying something you don’t really need.
And this is what I am living with on a daily basis.
Luckily, therapy has stopped me from him making me feel guilty and spoiling all my fun, and so a few days ago I set off to the shops to spend my wad, an excited glow lighting up what has become a habitual greyness around my middle-aged face.
One thing he was right about, was that I didn’t really need anything – but that was actually great because it took the pressure right off.
I took along with me my own advice about shopping for quality rather than quantity now that I’m fifty and mature and dragged myself away from my usual high street faves like Zara and headed instead towards the grown up end of town and David Jones.
I’m not actually a wasteful shopper. There are very few clothes in my wardrobe that I’ve NEVER worn and many of them I’ve worn for years. Well, apart from the black and caramel striped jacket that Kurt says I look like a bee in, several pairs of shoes I’ve bought at the market that I was hoping might someday fit my bigger than Asian feet and several tops that I think make me look fat – chosen hastily in changing rooms with trick lighting or bad mirrors. Or perhaps I was having my period. Or I just needed to buy something.
I also start to feel a little queasy at spending close to the $100 mark on one item.
But it goes without saying that I couldn’t NOT go to ‘Seed‘. I’ve mentioned my obsession with the Seed brand on my blog before, because I think it personifies me. Most of the range is in my colour scheme of black, cream and caramel, (apart from this shitty khaki green shade they insist on using, which I’m sure I can adapt to, given the time). But what I really love about Seed is that it offers more shades of cream than Dulux, the perfect range of linens and silks and and fucking loads of black, which is my comfort colour.
So, of course the minute I entered it’s haloed doors I just fell in love with this to-die-for black skirt because I decided recently that I need to get my legs out more as they are the only part of my body that hasn’t been swollen by hormones or etched with lines. Then I found this sleeveless jumper that makes my boobs actually look illogically pert AND BIG, and I’ve always loved that cut on the shoulders. And I could have gone on and on but wisely decided to head to DJs at that point because they have a Champagne bar there and as we all know, shopping can be a very stressful business.
Fortified by bubbles, I was on a roll and found this cute top in French Connection which, admittedly looked pretty shite on the hanger, but I knew would sit so nicely in the cream section of my wardrobe, and when I put it on I realised it’s one of those versatile tops you can dress up with nice trousers or down with shorts, and most importantly it will hide my muffin top without looking like that’s why I bought it.
It never ceases to amaze me how many clothes you can buy that you don’t actually need.