Saturday, April 27, 2013

Vintage Kicks

Turning 26 is a wonderous thing.

OK, OK, the Wrinkle of Incredulity on my forehead is deepening; I’ve got some fine lines growing around my eyes. My knees make that wet-cardboard creaky sound, and I’m doing lots more ‘reflective listening’ at noisy pubs, clubs and house parties. Not because I’ve become mature and wise and patient, but because I can’t actually hear what’s being said (years of earphone abuse), so I settle for ‘mm hmms’, ‘oh’s’ and what I hope is a thoughtful expression.

But back to what’s wonderous about being 26.

Being 26 means that I’ve been an Adult Woman, physiologically at least, for ten years, and have a wardrobe that is well established enough that I can pull together pieces that are, to borrow Maggie Alderson’s term, ‘Vintage Me’.

‘Vintage Me’ means clothes and accessories you’ve had for many a moon. ‘Vintage Me’, in my book, carries the ultimate styling cred. Why? Well, not only were you spectacularly chic, you are, still, spectacularly chic, AND had the foresight to keep great pieces even when they weren’t trending.

Basically, ‘Vintage Me’ = Swag + +

Particularly when the ‘Vintage me’ piece has swag already. Enter my two pairs of Doc Martin Kicks.

I bought my kicks when I started college (year 11 and 12, to all you non-ACT peeps). My college didn’t have a uniform, and, as such, 2003 was a great year for me, stylistically. My crew were rolling an early 90s look (and our own cigarettes) long before it was cool to do so.

(Insert your favorite hipster insult here)

My first pair of kicks – the classic Doc Martin boot, in an abstract black and white printed leather, purchased at Redpaths in Garema Place – were a momentous purchase, my first steps into the grungy look that would see me wear corsets, crochet cardigans, and torn, graffiti'd jeans to school.

Those kicks, along with the cherry red pair my parents bought me for Christmas, were my footwear of choice through 2003 and 2004, and well into my first year at uni. During the middle of my degree, my look took a turn towards the ladylike: my kicks were replaced by the highest of heels (my favorites: pale blue crushed velvet, gold trim, channeling Marie Antoinette). Moving out of home into cold, draughty houses and flats, I grew to love knee high boots, in all their manifestations: flat, heeled, elasticated, zippered.

Now, as a Young Professional (worst term ever – blergh) I’ve come to appreciate a Sensible Pump and Ballet Flat on a 9-5, Monday to Friday basis. But on my weekends, I’m all about putting the Sensible Pumps and Ballet Flats on one side, embracing my inner rebel and kicking it to the man - at least until 8am on Monday.

And there’s no better shoe for kicking it to the man than kicks. Particularly when said kicks are ten years old, and still kicking on.


Sunday, April 21, 2013

Bike

‘It’s just like riding a bike’, people say, when they mean that skills, once acquired, are never really lost.

For some, though, riding a bike is NOT ‘just like riding a bike’. Specifically, me.

I rode a lot as a kid: even had the requisite hot pink girls’ bike (with streamers on the handlebars: oh my). I remember coming off my bike many a time, and getting straight back on, grazed shins and all.

This changed when I was eight, and came off my bike so spectacularly that I decided bikes just weren’t for me.

It all started when I was visiting my grandparents, and had been allowed to go riding with a couple of older girls from the neighborhood.

To an eight year old girl in the 90s, twelve year olds were the absolute height of sophistication, glamor and coolness. This was before celebrity culture had really grown claws, so I, and my similarly aged friends, idolised our older neighbors/cousins/sisters like young girls today idolise the Kardashians.

Except, we aspired to our neighbours/cousins/sister’s super sleek high pony tails and scrunch socks (please tell me you remember scrunch socks), rather than Kim, Khloe and Kourtney’s questionable life choices involving videotape and diet pills.

Anyroadup, twelve year old sophisticates didn’t wear helmets, on account of their super high ponytails. So, I wasn’t either, because safety isn’t as important as a high, shiny, swooshy ponytail and being part of the cool peloton.

And, if the twelve year old cool girls were freewheeling down a big hill, I was coming along for the ride - even though the breaks on the bike I’d borrowed didn’t feel like they were working properly.

I think you can guess what happened next: my breaks failed, I crashed into a coppers’ log fence, knocked myself out, gave the twelve year old girls the fright of their lives (I should say here that underneath the cool they were actually really sweet and helped me limp home), and scored a graze on my chin that looked uncannily like a beard.

Looking back on it now, I can see that the universe was trying to teach me a valuable lesson: that suppressing my better judgement for the sake of being cool only leads to disaster (I mean, scrunch socks? Really?).

What I took away from the accident, though, was that Bikes Are Not Fun and I Will Never Ride Again.

But, eighteen years later, under the kindest and most watchful eyes of Zsuzanah Verona, I had another go at riding a bike, helmet firmly on and breaks thoroughly tested. I’ve gotten better at listening to what the universe is trying to teach me as I’ve got older. And what I learned yesterday was that:
• with a bit of help, and some gentle reminders to look ahead rather than down at my feet, that riding a bike actually is…just like riding a bike;
• riding a bike is just about the best fun ever;
• I don’t need to be part of a cool peloton when I’ve got a BFF like Zsuzannah; and, lastly
• a low chignon is really more sophisticated and helmet friendly than a high ponytail.


Sunday, April 14, 2013

Sydney, I’m Yours


a) Wide leg chiffon pants are not a good look on me;
b) Silk Herringbone blouses (from the sneakily hidden outlet store in Surry Hills) are;
c) Ruth Park street sign spotting fills me with excitement;
d) Iku lunches restore the soul;
e) Tear up one rainbow on Oxford St and a thousand others will grow in its place;
f) Anna Thomas designs the most beautiful women's wear imaginable;
g) Ibises’ beaks have evolved superior garbage-rifling, pond-scum-diving, and Peggy-frightening skillz;
h) Sydney heat is bad hair heat;
i) A coconut water and watching not one, but two, hideous weddings in the park at dusk makes point F OK;
j) The Hyde Park bubble man’s bubbles burst the exact moment I get my phone out to instagram them;
k) All day parking in the middle of Sydney is cheaper than all day parking in the middle of Canberra (believe);
l) Traffic jams and navigating Sydney streets are absolutely fine so long as I’ve got Zsuzannah Verona (Scotty to my Kirk);
m) It’s possible to eat rice pudding while driving if you really put your mind to it.

To paraphrase The Decemberists on Los Angeles:

Sydney, I’m yours.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

A Bajillion Other Things


Hey Girls,

I’ve just watched Seasons 1 and 2. And, to use a Shoshana-ism, Oh My F-ing G.

Girls, you blew my mind. Why?

Well, Shoshana’s hair. And Jecca’s feather coat, which is exactly like something I wore for a teaching day at uni a few years ago (believe). And how mean Marni is to Charlie.

But most importantly, Lena Dunham.

Allow me to explain.

I’ve been writing this blog for four years now, and have frequently dipped my toe into some thought-sharing about body image. My honours thesis explored body image, among other things. I inhabit a female body, a body which forces me to engage with other people’s perceptions of female bodies, mostly through comments about its size, shape, and overall composition, or its other characteristics, like birthmarks.

Consequentially, I read blogs, and newspaper and magazine articles, about women, bodies and body image, with one eye on personal and the other on academic interest.

And, Girls, I’m bored.

Achingly bored, in fact, because the conversation is the same. Has been for years. The articles mostly follow a formula:

• Personal anecdote (hook reader)

• Branch out into a wider comment (women don’t like their bodies: sad face)

• Criticism (corporations/society/patriarchy make women not like their bodies: angry face)

• Suggestion (more plus size models/less airbrushing/no botox: I’ve-had-an-idea face)

• Pseudo manifesto (let’s love our bodies: triumphant gloat face)

• Repeat ad nauseum (Peggy’s vomit face).

The worst thing about this body image conversation loop is that nothing changes. The same thoughts get published, week after week, month after month, year after year.

If talking about women’s bodies in the way that we’ve been doing for a while now worked - if it advanced anything, if women were acknowledging that their worth wasn’t determined by their physicality – we wouldn’t still be having the same conversation. Instead, we’d be talking about a bajillion other things.

Girls, you break this loop by ignoring the body image conversation. You could have easily gone down the path of making a big deal about Lena Dunham’s naked body, seen in just about every episode. Instead, it’s mentioned twice in season one, in an offhand way, and not at all in season two.

So, rather than having Hannah (Lena Dunham’s character), engage in angsty heart-to-hearts with Marni and Jecca and Shoshana about her body, Hannah has angsty heart-to-hearts about a bajillion other things, and eats cake, naked, in the bath.

It’s as if – shock, horror – Hannah’s body is not the biggest thing going on in her life.

Naomi Wolf wrote that ‘a woman wins by giving herself and other women permission – to eat; to be sexual; to age; to wear overalls, a paste tiara, a Balenciaga gown, a second-hand opera cloak, or combat boots; to cover up or go practically naked; to do whatever we choose in following – or ignoring – our own aesthetic.’

The above was written over 20 years ago now. And Girls, it’s great to see you following, ignoring, and recreating your aesthetic.

But, more importantly Girls, it’s great to see you talking about the bajillion other things that make up the rest of life, which is something I find to be the exact opposite of boring.

Yours sincerely, lots of love, and looking forward to Season three,

Peggy xox