Crossfire Hurricane

Of all my demons, I dread procrastination the most.

Unlike pride, jealousy, or anger, whose faces I know to slam the door on, I can never make myself see the harm when procrastination comes a-knocking. I let her in and, before we know it, it’s March and those Summertime things I had to do remain undone.

Which brings me to today’s topic: why it took me a whole EIGHTEEN MONTHS of frequent, regular attendance at the gym before I ‘made time’ to buy a sports bra.

The alluring thing about procrastination is it allows you to challenge quantum physics and manipulate the laws of the universe, making and unmaking time at will.

There have been whole pockets, in the last eighteen months, where I’ve spun time into a glossy, golden expanse: afternoons re-reading Atonement (not just page 136: the whole thing); aimless Sunday driving with the windows down and Tame Impala blaring; afternoon teas, brunches, dinners, coffees, where Now was All; stolen days doing sweet FA of any significance.

When pressed on the matter of the urgent purchase of a sports bra, though, my rad procrastinatory quantum mechanics skillz emerged, and those glossy pockets of time that I’d spun out are unmade, just like that. Couldn’t possibly have gone sports bra shopping; there was a party on, a chapter to write, a job to do. Next weekend, for sure, it’ll happen.

Next weekend, and the one after the one after that happen, and keep on happening. An honest evaluation of stretch marks suggests that the old Pleasure State (with the wire poking out) does not provide adequate support in spin class.

Even still, it takes a wrinkle in the fabric of time. A scheduled lunchtime gym session thwarted by a pair of forgotten sneakers. A two-for-one lingerie deal at David Jones on my way back to the office. It was time.

I like to pretend that my iPod-priave-changeroom-danceparty-for-one (musical accompaniment: the Rolling Stone’s Jumping Jack Flash), was purely in the interests of thoroughly testing out the Bustenhalter’s bounce control.

But I’ll tell you a secret: I suspect it might have had something to do with sending procrastination on her way, and the fact that there’s no better time or place to join the Mick Jagger Strut Team than when you’ve had a win.

If said win occurs in a David Jones change room, clad in a pencil skirt and sport bra? Well, I know Mick would say it’s alright, now.

In fact, it’s a gas.

Go the Swannies…

Those of you who know me well know that I’m not what you’d call a Sport person.

This probably has something to do with having ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHY THOSE PEOPLE ARE RUNNING THAT WAY, THEN THIS WAY, AND THEN THE OTHER WAY AGAIN, AND WHERE’S THE BALL, AND WHAT’S ALL THE FUSS ABOUT ANYWAY AND I’M SO CONFUSED RIGHT NOW AND LET’S GO HOME AND EAT MACARONI CHEESE AND DRINK TEA.

Despite the efforts of many, I remain, staunchly, unenlightened when it comes to sport.

But, while I can’t read a game of sport, I can read an outfit like no-one else. If I were a gambling woman, I’d bet you ten dollars that I could tell you at least one thing about each and every stranger walking down the street, based purely on their clothes, and I’d be right at least 80% of the time (A tip for young players: shoes are the easiest place to start - avoid anyone wearing stripper platforms).

The problem with having savant-like abilities in reading clothing and its meanings is that, sometimes, I forget that not everyone inhabits the meaning system that I do. Some people inhabit completely different universes of sartorial meaning.

This was bought home to me yesterday, in the elevator at work.

I was wearing one of my favourite scarves. It’s from Friends of Couture in Melbourne (Degraves St on sale is a beautiful thing indeed). Comprised of large red stripes on a pale pink background, with a lurex fibre woven through a section at each end, it’s my customary it’s-a-bloody-awful-grey-day scarf, because I read the playful combination of pink, red, and sparkle as a whimsical and uplifting juxtaposition against the plain and sober geometric pattern.

Anyroadup, my scarf and I hopped in the elevator on Friday afternoon. The head of the organisation I work for was also in the lift.

Now, lifts are socially awkward at the best of times, but when it’s you, two other people, and (supposedly) the most important person in the building, it becomes excruciating. My tactic, as with all socially awkward situations, is to get down with my ethnographic self and start analysing people’s behaviour, while hiding in the corner hoping to avoid interaction.

One of the other women in the lift said ‘hi’ to the distinguished person. He said ‘hi’ back. She and her companion exited the lift at level five. I, and the big cheese, were exiting at level ten. Five whole levels of awkward silence. My rad ethnographic ninja skills? Failing, massively.

At about level seven, the head honcho turns to me and says:

‘I like your scarf. Getting ready for the weekend?’

My in my meaning system, I read this comment as meaning: Golly, I like your sparkly scarf. Sparkles just scream weekend, don’t they?

I replied:

‘Yes, I think it’s going to be a good one!’

He replied:

‘Well, it’s supposed to be cold and wet, I hope your team wins’

My in my meaning system, I read this comment as meaning: I completely GET that sparkle vs plain is one of The. Most. Significant. Sartorial. Debates. Of. Our. Time.

At this point, my newfound respect for what I understood to be a surprisingly complex individual, with considered aesthetic preferences, was growing. He continued:

‘Although it usually is on grand final weekend’

And then I realised. He was referring to the Swans vs Hawks football match this weekend. And had read my red scarf as team colours.

Semantic mismatch, much?

Luckily, the lift had bought us to where we needed to be, so further awkwardness was mitigated.

While we got out on the same floor, we were on completely different levels, sartorially.

And apparently, I’m a Sydney Swans fan now. Go the Swannies, I suppose…

Packing

Those of you who know me well know, in my heart of hearts, I’m a chronic homebody. My little nest of an apartment pulls me in, and, like a homing pigeon, my sights are set on home, always.

And, yet, I love new places, new people, and the chance to know your travel buddies better. All of these things give scope to the imagination (to borrow a phrase from my favourite redhead, Anne of Green Gables).

Recently, it’s been my privilege to go on some brief sojourns, for business and for pleasure. This has got me to thinking about packing, and, more specifically, how not to do it. Sadly, I excel at the latter.

Question: how many scarves does one young lady need for a trip to Scotland? Answer: 17 (BELIEVE). My housemates at the time were capable of tough love, forcibly removing my suitcase and reducing the number of scarves to single digits. I'm forever in their debit.

A more recent example of my packing ineptitude is this week’s business trip to regional NSW. My colleague and I were going on a four day trip to one of the few places colder than Canberra (hard to imagine, but it exists, and is lovely, in spite of the cold). Logically, I packed three cardigans. So far, so good.

But, here’s where it gets messy: I packed ONLY ONE DECENT GOING OUT CARDIGAN.

YES. I KNOW.

The rest of the cardigan contingent consisted of my boudoir cardigan (inappropriate for non bedroom wear) and an old cardigan of MamaK’s that I wore ONCE with a VERY SPECIFIC outfit and only VAGUELY LIKED in that PARTICULAR CONTEXT.

What was this last cardigan in my suitcase? I have absolutely no idea. But, as there are no packing pixies in my apartment, I must have packed it for a reason. I just can’t recall what that reason was.

Being daft when it comes to packing does have its advantages. I’ve yet to go away on a trip without purchasing something amazing at a bargain price, often facilitated by my deficient packing skillz.

Had I not found myself rapidly running out of warm clothes this week, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so willing to try a slightly unorthodox but now-new-favourite jumper from the sale rack in Myer. A similar thing happened in Melbourne last month with my sparkly Camberwell markets sweater.

Perhaps it’s fair to trust that nature, abhorring a vacuum, will fill any voids in your capsule travel wardrobe with exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. And that, my friends, is just the ticket when it comes to successful packing: let go, trust the universe, and remember your credit card.

Work it Out

It’s official. I’m not unemployable!

Whilst I’ll be taking a couple of weeks to work out exactly what my options are and the direction I want to take, the results at the moment are that I have a concrete offer and should be hearing most likely some positive news about another offer next week.

Aside from feeling relieved, I’m incredibly excited. About starting a new job, yes. About having greater financial freedom, yes. About new experiences, new people, new opportunities, yes, yes, yes.

About the chance to develop the world’s most amazing corporate cute wardrobe – HELLZ TO THE YEAH, TO THE POWER OF TEN.

Like applying for jobs, I’ve begun my background preparation well in advance when it comes to rising to the top of the Department of Amazing Corporate Cute Wardrobe. After recent closet upheavals I’ve blogged about previously, I’ve audited the existing garments and identified gaps to be filled. (Incidentally, this is how my supervisor suggested I start my PhD – by auditing the existing literature and identifying a gap. See, I am putting my academic skillz to good use in a workplace context already!) I’ve also consulted widely with experts in the field – Kitty Gilfeather, Mimi Goss, Zsusannah Verona and Clementine Kemp – and conducted observational research whilst waiting to pick MamaK up from her department. It’s from this extensive research base that I have developed a strong and clear strategic direction for the work wardrobe project, broken down into key priorities and areas for action.

The priorities, in order of importance:

Dresses in summer weight suiting
Pencil skirts
Cardigans – especially summer weight cropped, but also replacement of worn out winter woolies
Summer work shoes with a mid heel

(Again, prioritization – a highly transferable skill set)

Before I even knew I had a job, I’d sent MamaK and PapaK off to Malaysia with my favorite interview dress to be copied in summer weight wool suiting. They returned with five lovely dresses, which, after a few additional tweaks at the tailors, will be perfect for summer work wear. I’m confident that these dresses will transfer to winter work wear easily, with the addition of cardigans, tights and boots. Dresses in summer weight suiting – actioned.

As I’ve mentioned before, I base my wardrobe around dresses, and don’t anticipate that changing once I commence my grown up job. As variety is the spice of life, though, I felt that at least one pencil skirt, to combine with various tops and cardigans, would be a useful alternative for consideration. Flexibility is, after all, a valuable quality. A trip to Material Pleasures, my favorite second hand clothing outlet, turned up the perfect gray wool pencil skirt with a twist – the dinkiest pleat detail at the back! Only problem was, it was too small at the hips and too large at the waist. A few alterations later, and it’s ready to go. Pencil skirt – actioned.

Cardigans are proving to be more elusive. The particular style I like to wear with smart dresses, that is, cropped with short to mid sleeves, are sadly elusive. I have my grey-with-beading interview cardigan, and a recently acquired plain black Laura Ashley, but anticipate greater need of this key resource for covering upper arms and keeping warm in air conditioned offices. Cardigans have therefore been identified as an emerging priority in the key area of wardrobe planning.

Last but not least, summer work shoes with a mid heel round out my list of priorities. My favorite summer sandals that I blogged about at the beginning of this year could do at a pinch, but they are showing signs of wear. I have plenty of cute pumps, but most are suitable for cooler weather – closed toe, t-bar straps, in black or brightly coloured. I purchased a fantastic pair of red high heeled boots on the weekend, but they will be too sticky for January/February, when I start work. Taking action to rectify this situation, the key strategic direction I aim to take in this area is a nude or tan coloured, open toe, mid heel pump, sans strap, to achieve my goals of professionalism and leg elongation.

But with the rad wardrobe and academic skillz portfolio I’ve worked out over the years, I’m sure I’ll be all over summer work shoes and cropped cardigans like white on rice.