Daggy Jumper Part-ay (and Bullshit, and Part-ay, and Bullshit…with apologies to Notorious BIG)

Winter is coming.

To our nation’s capital.

Now, you can, and should, cuddle up with some seasonally appropriate Game of Thrones, a hottie (hot water bottle and/or person – count your blessings if both), and a big old mug of tea/mulled wine/hot chocolate.

But, there is another strategy you can adopt to minimise seasonal chill. That strategy, my friends, is the Daggy Jumper Part-ay.

(In the context of Daggy Jumpers, the normal spelling of party just doesn’t carry enough cringe: a hyphen just has to happen here).

Hipsters have been All About The Daggy Jumper Part-ay for a fair while now. I remember, distinctly, my first encounter with a Hipster Daggy Jumper Part-ay member. This encounter was at an actual party (normal spelling), complete with all requisite winter-in-Canberra’s-Inner-North party activities, circa 2007: goon of fortune, people dancing in circles around piles of coats in a bare living room, representation from three different political parties (and factions within parties), and at least one emotional minidrama involving a love triangle and a certain young lady blowing her nose on someone else’s pashmina.

Yes, that was me. Soz.

During some post-tears circle dancing around coats, a fellow partygoer joined me in my interpretive dance moves to Architecture in Helskini’s ‘Places Like This’ (if you need a visual: imagine me waving of arms in the manner of a floaty willow tree, add in some Gumby legs). Said partygoer, otherwise unremarkable, was wearing a baggy grey handknit with an appliquéd koala bear on the front, chomping on a eucalyptus leaf (the appliquéd koala, not my wavy-arms-dance companion).

At the time, I called bullshit on his Daggy Jumper Part-ay, picked up my coat from the middle of the circle, and went outside to check out goon of fortune.

Now, six years and a whole lot of other parties after the fact, I’ve come around to the Daggy Jumper Part-ay. Big Time, as one of my boyfriends from the 2007 vintage (a good year) would say.

Sourcin’
The trick to having a Daggy Jumper Part-ay, as opposed to just a Daggy Jumper, is to mix a bit of high culture with your low culture (hollah at me Adorno: Bourdieu, you, ain’t heavy, you my bro).

By this, I mean, choose a daggy jumper in luxe fibres: babysoft lambswool, buttery cashmere, so-fluffy-you-float angora, and a bit of lurex for doing the Fancy.

Sounds expensive, right? Wrong. Second hand stores are teeming with Daggy Jumper Part-ay specimens. Admittedly, you need some time on your hands and the guidance of your inner shopper intuition, but anybody with a couple of hours to spare on a Saturday can make good at their local Vinnies, Salvos or op-shop and come out with some Daggy Jumper Part-ay gold.

Just remember to check the fibre content label: you can usually tell by feel if you’re dealing with poly blend or something a bit more special, but it always pays to double check when you’re all about bigging up the luxe.

You can also ask your family and elderly friends if they have any Daggy Jumper Part-ays they can pass on to you, to keep the family’s stylin’ trads alive. Or, if a trip to Vinnies and Granny’s doesn’t turn up anything, pop into Country Road, they happen to be doing some very convincing vintage repros at the mo.

Prepin’
Once you get your Daggy Jumper Part-ay home, it pays to invest in some pre-wear prep. A gentle handwash will remove any lingering scent of dead people/menthol cigarettes/shop assistants/home brand sherry/naphthalene, and any suspicious stains that may have emanated from a previous owner’s body.

Handwashing using my chosen brand of laundry soap (Lux) also imparts a delicious scent that will make people want to cuddle you (huzzah for cuddles).

Again, check the fibre content label, but allow me to lay down the best way, by far, to handwash:

1) dissolve a small amount of Lux flakes in hot water, top up your bucket/sink/basin with cold water, and dunk your jumper thoroughly
2) watch an ep of Game of Thrones
3) empty the soapy water, refill your bucket/sink/basin with plain cold water
4) watch another ep of Game of Thrones
5) empty bucket onto pot plants/garden, pop your jumper into your washing machine, and run it through on a Rinse and Spin cycle
6) place on a flat surface to dry
7) watch eps of Game of Thrones until your Daggy Jumper Part-ay is dry

This last step is optional, but I highly recommend it: Peter Dinklage is a stone cold fox.

Stylin’
It’s absolutely pointless, in most cases, to try and achieve a slim, streamlined silhouette. Most Daggy Jumper Part-ays, especially if they’re vintage, are cut with comfort and warmth, rather than flattery, in mind. Consequentially, channel Notorious and embrace the B-I-G. Let your winter belly rolls luxuriate in the warm, non-judgemental embrace of your Daggy Jumper Part-ay.

You may wish to pair your Daggy Jumper Part-ay with a fitted jean and boots, to prove to the world at large that your form has shape. But, I don’t think the fitted jean is an essential for styling the Daggy Jumper Part-ay. Really, you could wear whatever you want on your bottom half (except shorts, because they’re weird, even more so in a Canberra winter).

Basically, no-one is going to notice what’s going on south of your belly button: they’re going to be too excited by your amazing jumper, and wondering why they’re experiencing the urge to cuddle (that’s the power of Lux).

Cautionz
One further word to the wise: if you have a penchant for black fluffy Daggy Jumper Part-ays, like I do, be aware of the lint issue. It tends to gather in places that will shock you when you look in the mirror (underarms, backs, and belly buttons, oh my). It can be quite confronting, more so if you were de-Daggy Jumper Part-ay-ing in front of some lucky guy or girl (I’d imagine).

You can solve this issue by wearing a tee shirt underneath, but if that idea doesn’t appeal, consider yourself forewarned and forearmed about the armpit lint, and make sure you do a quick lint check pre boudoir.

Now, go forth, and Daggy Jumper Part-ay, because winter is coming.

Onesie (with apologies to Hamlet)

This weekend, in amongst autumn cleaning my apartment (spring cleaning: so passé), entertaining friends, getting back to the gym after injury, and catching a film with MamaK, I’ve been battling a great dilemma:

To Onesie, or not to Onesie?

That is the question.

I am not referring, dear readers, to one piece cossie. Nor am I referring to jumpsuits. There’s no dilemma in my mind when it comes to cozzies and jumpsuits: I like cozzies and jumpsuits. I have time for cozzies and jumpsuits. I’ve very successfully owned multiples of both (believe).

What I am questioning, with the existential seriousness of Shakespeare’s Danish Prince, is the one piece loungewear suit, comprising of a hooded top attached to a pair of legs, made of polar fleece, with a zip fastening.

As a typical Type A personality, I’m working my way through my onesie dilemma not via a dramatic monologue, but by a list of points for, and against, the onesie.

(If Hamlet had been a Type A, he could have written a handy list too. It might have made all the difference).

To Onesie
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Onesies are warm, and they are cozy. It is possible to layer up against the Canberra chill, but there will always be little bits of you – ankles, the juncture of skivvies and leggings – vulnerable to sneaky chills (just quietly, I have a suspicion Hamlet would have found this aspect of a onesie appealing. That castle must have been some sort of draughty).
• Grown adults wearing - essentially - a babygro is hilarious, something which the lovely Miranda Hart has exploited (google Miranda Hart + Onesie Direction if you need proof). I have sufficient self awareness of my hipster tendencies to ironically enjoy this.
• You can get them in tiger print. And leopard print. And the union jack, and…

Not to Onesie
• Slippery slope: I already go more places than I should in gym leggings and baggy tee shirts. Crop top bras (comfy) have become a mainstay of my working wardrobe, even though I promised myself, at point of purchase, they were For Home Use Only (or FHUO, hollah at my APS BroDudes and SoulSistas down with document classifications). I wear slippers to the local shops to buy milk. If I get a onesie, it’s only a matter of time before I’m wearing it to the office on casual Friday – and then I’ll be Onesie Girl. Basically, my relationship with comfortable clothing is like Pandora’s Box: once opened, there's no going back.
• Onesies are sexless. I suspect that being a onesie girl means that I’d condemn myself to a lifetime of being a onesie girl in relation to other sorts of onesies. If you take my meaning.
• Everyone’s doing the onesie thing. Onesies are huge. Onesies are massive. I have sufficient self awareness of my hipster tendencies to sneer at this.
• I’m already tall, with a long body, and ample frontage. Which makes buying one piece anythings (swimmers, leotards, wonder woman outfits etc) tricky. A onesie would magnify this problem, and would, no doubt, result in wedgies. Back, and front.

I don’t yet know whether it is nobler, stylistically, to suffer the slings and arrows of Canberra’s outrageous weather. Or, to onesie – to warm, and, perchance, to cozy on through winter.

Aye, there’s the rub, alright.

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.

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.

Road Tripping

Feeling landlocked last week, I decided to hit the open road. Sometimes, some sweet highway miles, good tunes, the morning sun on paddocks, and lots, and lots, of coffee, are just what I need.

Some would say that road tripping is running away, but I say, there are some problems, writer’s block among them, that benefit from eating some dust. A road trip won’t get the writing done, for sure, but it will take me out of myself.

What I love best about road tripping - apart from the opportunity to sing loudly, without fear of reprisal, to Bon Jovi - is that Normal is bent just a little out of shape. Danishes, usually eschewed in favor of rye toast and vegemite, become suitable breakfast foods. I drive bare-faced with the windows down; I wear my hair in a bun and don’t worry about combing kinks out when I let it down. I wear my oldest, comfiest pair of flats. Loose tees and second-wear jeans are de rigueur, along with a thrown-in-the-car-as-an-afterthought cardie for windy truck stops. I take photos of silly things, things that normally aren’t snap worthy, but somehow, when I’m road tripping, are irresistibly Instagrammable.

And while that all sounds pretty hard to beat, it gets better when my destination is somewhere, and someone, lovely: last weekend I was road tripping to meet my friend Clementine Kemp, and her puppy, in Clem’s lovely little town.

Knowing a cup of tea, apple cake, walks along the main drag, glorious thrift shop finds, juicy gossip and inappropriate conversation await at my destination just makes those sweet highway miles all the sweeter.

Gelly

Dear Beyonce,

I had a sad realisation last week. I realised that whatever I do in my life, I will never be as cool as you.

You see, you’re just so great. Every time I see a picture of you during my morning trashy-section-of-the-newspaper browse, I do a little chair dance. Because, to quote Leo Sayer (crossing musical genres, hope that’s ok with you), you make me feel like dancing.

Even when you got into hot water about lip synching at Obama’s inauguration, I was totally on your side. As was everyone. Because, hey, you’re Beyonce, the woman who gave the world Single Ladies: how could we NOT be on your side. Now put your hands up.

(I once tried to lip synch through a bad tutorial I was taking. It didn’t work. Further proof I will never be as cool as you).

If I had to put a finger on what makes you so cool, Beyonce, it’s that you NEVER, EVER look phased, or flustered. Even when you were busted lip synching. You kind of…glide, graciously, coolly. Like a glacier moving at an accelerated pace due to human induced climate change.

I don’t glide, graciously, coolly, or in the manner of a glacier. I fall down flights of stairs. I look phased, frequently, so much so that people stop me to ask what’s wrong (NOTHING! MY FACE IS JUST LIKE THIS ON ITS OWN!) I get flustered, stumble, and land in such a way that my shoe makes a distinctly fart-like noise on the linoleum, and I feel the need to clarify to assembled colleagues that the noise they just heard was not a fart, but a fart-like-sound, a faux fart, coming from my shoe.

Beyonce, I think you can start to see why I will never be as cool as you.

I have, however, recently discovered something that makes me feel a teeny, tiny bit cool, a bit glide-y. And that’s gell nails.

You see, trying to have nice nails, when you’re as much of a terminal clutz as I am, is setting yourself up for a big disappointment. You start off, all hopeful: you prep with base coat, you apply two to three layers of colour, finish with a top coat, and BAM! Fancy fingers.

The following morning, though, you wake up with sheet marks on your nails (and nail marks on your sheets). Or, by afternoon tea time, there’s a chip on your index nail and you just can’t help but notice it every time you glance down at your hands.

SIGH.

But, in come gell nail colours. Beyonce, they give clutzes like me a little bit of hope that we may, one day, be a little bit as cool as you.

Gell colours give TWO WEEKS of chip proof, smudge proof, shiny shiny nails. That’s the kind of gelly I’m ready for, if I may mangle the chorus of your Destiny’s Child hit.

And you know something, Beyonce? It’s really cool going through life with nice nails. Even though my face is doing its thing, and I’ve got my farty shoes on.

Blue Period

I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who has a signature colour.

Of course, all my ANU homies (Haydon-to-the-Allen: REPRESENT) know what happens when you take a signature colour too far: you become Yellow Girl (FYI, I saw her undies one day while shopping at Dickson Woolies: they were black, and I felt vaguely let down).

Yellow Girl notwithstanding, I’ve always thought a signature would be kind of nice. A colour that exemplifies Peggyness: a colour that people would see and go, ahh, yes, that’s Peggy.

The problem is: which colour?

At various times, I’ve worn a lot of red: a lot of brown: a lot of green. I’ve accessorised extensively in pink. I’m the proud owner of more than one yellow dress. Purple tights and gloves, orange handbags, turquoise suede ballet flats. My love affair with neutrals will last a lifetime, and Back in Black isn’t just an ACDC song, it’s a way of life. You name the colour, and I bet I’ve got it somewhere in my wardrobe, in my accessories drawers, or in my jewellery box.

And yet, almost every outfit I’ve worn in the last few months has been built on blue.

I didn’t really notice my wardrobe was entering a blue period. Around this time last year, I bought some blue and white ceramic jewellery from Mrs Peterson’s Pottery. That winter, I found two amazing second hand blue skirts: the navy Veronika Maine pencil and the vintage ultramarine wool pleated mid-calf soon made their way into my high rotation wardrobe. Feeling my workday skirt-blouse-cardigan groove as spring arrived, I dug up an old cornflour blue silk blouse, unearthed a David Lawrence white and petrol blue abstract print shirt, and made myself a navy and white pleated shell top. Blue plastic sunglasses were brought back from Malaysia by PapaK. Christmas came, along with a swag of blue gifts: more of Mrs Peterson’s blue ceramic earrings, a multicoloured resin bangle with a glorious streak of sky blue.

Some days I wake up and look at the outfit I laid out the previous night: it’s blue-on-blue. Other days, blue creeps into my ensemble through my massive cobalt shades or my blue porcelain earrings. If any of you were wondering how far this goes, I’ve found French navy to be a pleasing stand in for black lingerie.

Picasso’s blue period lasted about four years, according to my five minute trawl of the internet. Perhaps I have found my signature colour, for the time being, at least?

Yet, the other day, dressing for work, I found myself sprucing up an otherwise neutral outfit with a dash of red; my garnet ring, my scarlet sunglasses, and those silly red knickers I keep in the drawer for a giggle.

Perhaps there’s some inherent wisdom, then, in my reluctance to fully commit to a signature colour. Some days, you just have to wear a little red.

Blue periods notwithstanding.

Slip Ups

Way back in ’09, I wrote about my blasé attitude to panties. Three and a half years later, I stand by my minimalist approach to foundation garments: but with one significant caveat.

Slips – half and full – are the solid foundation on which the greatest of outfits are built.

I’ll admit, slips have a public relations problem. They’re what our nanas wear. They’re made from flesh coloured polyester. They’re perilously close to those awful spencers our parents forced us to wear under school blouses. In short, they’re not what you reach for when you want to feel pulled together, chic, and ready to kick ass and take names like a mo-fo.

But, I’m a style blogger, and therefore sartorially fearless. The above concerns? I laugh in their faces. I wear slips, in all their nana-ish, flesh coloured polyester, under-the-blouse glory. And, at least some days, kicking ass and taking names like a mo-fo is item one on the agenda.

(Other days, I consider it an achievement to not spill toothpaste on my shoes in the morning. But let’s not dwell)

The great thing about slips is that they perform radical wardrobe extensions. For instance, that woollen sweater you bought five years ago, wearing a little thin but oh so soft? A neutral slip, popped underneath, will allow you to wear that old favourite sweater to the office without giving your colleagues more information than they need about your bra. Or, a vintage dress, viscose rayon, with an unfortunate tendency to crotch creep like an overeager lover? A half slip will keep your dress where it’s supposed to be.

These uses are all fine and dandy, but my all time favourite application of a slip (half or full) is to facilitate floaty floral sundress and skirts on windy spring days. To live in the nation’s capital, in springtime, is to risk disgrace every time you step out in a light, full skirt – our breezes are, indeed, fresh. A slip, under your floaty florals, will mean that you can stroll about our blustery city free from fear of flashing unsuspecting passers-by. Should your skirt be blown completely up (this actually, no-joke, happened to me last month outside the Melbourne Building), all that will be revealed is your tasteful, modest slip.

Which comes in doubly-handy if you’ve had one of Those Mornings, and forgotten to put on your panties.

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…

Hangover

I was going to do a humblebrag and tell you that I wore an outfit that I kinda sorta liked yesterday, but I’ve decided to outright brag: I had an amazing wardrobe day yesterday.

I was going to be coy and not tell you about it, but I’ve decided to spill: a turquoise linen shift, indigo cropped cardi, lime green ponyskin ballet flats, orange and tan leather bag. Topped off with a heavy tan leather belt, a soft pink-and-indigo cotton scarf, and a couple of carats of diamond studs (real, I don’t fake it). It went off.

I was going to write something positive and uplifting and philosophical, but I’ve decided to just be honest: I have the worst wardrobe hangover in the history of wardrobe hangovers.

If you don’t know what a wardrobe hangover is, then LUCKY YOU, because they are awful, and there’s no vegemite-toast-and-a-big-mug-of-coffee cure. A wardrobe hangover occurs when you find yourself, crushingly, returned to the realities of having a limited wardrobe after flying a little too close to the sun of sartorial perfection. It’s an awful feeling, similar to how Lucy felt in C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, when she opened the wardrobe doors expecting to show Peter, Susan and Edmund the magic land of Narnia, but instead revealed a pile of old coats.

Sister, I feel your pain. Because yesterday, when I opened my wardrobe, all was magical, enchanted, and glistening, and today, it was so much sham and drudgery.

The worst thing about a wardrobe hangover is that whatever you wear, even if it’s objectively decent or even rather lovely, will be coloured by the deep shadows of your amazing wardrobe day.

Today, when I awoke in the grips of my wardrobe hangover, I put on my most soothing outfit (geometric-print pleated skirt, black wool long sleeved top, black cardigan, tan suede ballet flats, black belt, lucky mermaid broach, pink and red scarf) and hoped for the best. Surely, I could stave off the worst of my wardrobe hangover by placating my raw nerves with the simple and the good?

No, I could not.

OF CORUSE the pleats of my skirt were an exercise in arse aggrandisement. OF COURSE my top had a million little pills that no amount of lint-rolling could remove. OF COURSE my cardigan fell at the wrong point and obscured my waist, my belt was either too tight, too loose, too high, too low - never just right - my lucky mermaid pin sat bizarrely on my left boob, and my shoes made weird slapping noises when I walked.

The only solution was to rip the whole sorry mess off as soon as I walked through the door this evening, mope about my apartment in leggings and an old tee shirt of my brother’s, and write about it, in the hope of shaking off the last of my wardrobe hangover.

After all, I have to get dressed again tomorrow, and who knows what surprises my wardrobe might hold for me?

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.

Drama

I’m posting a little early this week. Firstly because I have some wonderful visitors coming this weekend and, consequentially, will miss my usual Friday-night-writing-sesh. And, secondly, because tonight is the last episode of Offspring and I need something to keep me occupied while I wait till 8.30pm. I have written before about my addiction to TV shows. So, my need for writerly distraction while I wait to find out…

WHAT WILL HAPPEN WITH NINA AND PATRICK?? AND BILLY AND MICK?? AND MICK AND ROSANNA?? AND ZARA, JIMMY, AND BABY ALFIE?? WILL CLEGG AND CHEREE GET IT ON AGAIN??? WHY AREN’T DARCY AND GERALDINE TOGETHER?? WHAT ABOUT ADAM-OF-THE-AWESOME-BEARD-AND-SUPER-NICENESS?? OH MY GOSH THERE’D BETTER BE A SEASON FOUR!!!

…should come as no surprise.

As tribute to Offspring’s Nina, this post is about a conflict I’m facing deep within my soul, an inner turmoil I’ve tossed around, played out, and visualised, Nina-style, for, ohhh, far longer than I care to admit.

Tonight’s emotional mini drama: I have this fabulous Country Road early 90s dress. It’s silk, with a small cream print on a navy background, and I picked it up for $9 at the Salvo’s last summer, so it’s got a great story.

Yet, I’ve never worn it. Why has this cute, savvy find been mouldering in my closet? Because, I cannot make up my mind about its length.

You see, the dress finishes mid calf. I know mid calf is trending massively, but, if you look carefully, mid calf skirts which work are cut full and in fabric with some body and drape, or close-hug your body all the way down, so much so that walking is an impossibility (who needs to walk anyway?).

My dress is neither of those things. Instead, the skirt hangs there, limp, half arsed, neither here nor there. A bit like Dr Patrick Reid, truth be told.

While the top half of this dress’s moderately low cut is best accessorised by a navy cardi and a peachy bosom, the bottom half’s mumsy wishywashyness is best accessorised by a Mormon braid and two sister wives waiting at home.

Yes, I’ve watched Big Love. Four times. Moving on.

The dilemma is this: do I chop the skirt at my knees, making the dress a more flattering length? Or, do I leave the dress as-is, in the name of preserving its early 90s glory, and toughen up the wishy washy with decidedly non-Mormon red high heeled boots?

I mean, it’s not as if I’m a serious vintage collector. I feel no obligation to preserve my pieces. I wear all of my vintage items, and I like to think I add to their stories by wearing them, circle-of-life style.

But, could I be unduly swayed by notions of stylistic correctness that relate in no way to reality? And, will I regret, later on, my choice to chop, a choice I can never take back?

I suspect that, like tonight’s episode of Offspring, my drama will not be easily resolved. At least, not within the space of a 45 minute episode. But I guess that’s why there’s a next season, to tie up all loose threads, and make room for fresh dramas, in my wardrobe and Nina’s life.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some TV to watch…

Hotties, Heat Lamps, Hoodies and Warm Hearts: How to Survive a Canberra Winter

It’s the middle of winter in Canberra, and it’s Darwinism, pure and simple.

Only the fittest will survive.

Here’s the top ten secrets of the Capital's winter-fit. Now, go and make it work. We've still got two months left.

10) A proper coat. Proper, here, meaning thick wool tweed or worsted, lined, finishing - at least - at your thighs, but preferably longer, with roomy pockets. A lesser garment than the above will be insufficient. If you are new in town, this is the first order of business after ANZAC day (which Canberra natives know to be winter’s unofficial beginning).

A handy hint: the best coats I have found have been vintage, my guess is because air conditioning was less functional back in the day. My particular favourite winter coat was a $45 steal at Narabundah Vinnies. It is my very greatest bargain shopping purchase of all time.

9) Heat lamps and/or heating in your bathroom. Why? Let’s imagine you’re in a particularly awesome hot shower. It’s steamy, you’re washing your hair. You’ve even shaved your legs.

Nice.

Imagine, now, turning the taps off. You’re naked, you’re dripping wet. You step into a frigid bathroom. The air temp hovers just above ten degrees.

Not nice AT ALL.

I have lived in old, cold, Canberra houses/apartments where this sitch was a reality for June, July and August (PhD scholarship ghetto years, yo). It’s a suboptimal way to start the day, but you can avoid it by judicial deployment of energy-guzzling appliances.

8) American Apparel tights. Enough said.

7) A million and a half recipes for soup, or a mother/partner/housemate/really really good friend who will make soup for you. Unless you have a Spartan constitution, you will get sick at some point before a Canberra winter is through, particularly if you’re doing the hot shower-cold bathroom hop (see point nine). When you get sick, you need soup – chicken soup, lentil soup, pumpkin soup, pho, broth, laksa – to get you back to full health. That, and a whole lot of boxed sets of DVD’s.

Gavin and Stacey marathon, anyone?

6) Hoodies, preferably from your alma marta. Australian Bureau of Statistics data released this week indicates Canberra’s population is the most highly educated in Australia. It’s a safe town in which to get your nerd pride on.

If you’re a very clever cookie and have studied at more than one institution, pick your hoodies according to international rankings. Canberra is the only place in Australia with a population who knows and cares about such matters - choose your hoodies accordingly.

5) Hotties (Hot water bottles). If you are no longer deriving perverse pleasure from doing the whole Orwelian down-and-out-in-a-freezing-cold-climate thing, the simplest solution to your problems is to get into bed with multiple hotties.

You can pick them up for $3 at Big W. Too easy.

4) Proper Gloves. Proper, here, meaning fine calfskin leather, lined with cashmere, in a colour that says ‘Hi, my name is Fabulous’ (my gloves are violet, AKA Fabulous). As with coats (point ten), a lesser garment than the above will be insufficient. Good gloves will cost you (unless you or someone you know is travelling to Florence – in which case they will still cost you, but slightly less). It is worth the financial pain, though, because chilblains and knuckles-so-dry-from-the-cold-they-crack-and-bleed-as-you-type are best avoided.

You need the best gloves you can get your hands on. Or in. Just get some gloves.

3) Excellent company. If you are going to make the effort to leave your heater and get out of your trackpants, the conversation had better fucking sparkle.

Canberran natives know this. It’s why we all become fascinating people in the winter months.

2) Multiple Cardigans. You need at least one for each day that you are at work, because, if you are working indoors, heating levels will vary throughout the day and you may need an extra layer to keep you snug.

Some people bring blankets to work. My advice on this issue is that because its cold doesn’t mean you need your blankie. You're a grown up, put on a cardi.

1) An iPod, full of cold weather songs, because listening to Bright Eyes transforms your twenty minute walk home from a cold and miserable plod to a beautiful, pathos-filled journey of wonder. We natives know that’s what a Canberra winter is really all about – cold hands, cold noses, cold toes…

And warm hearts.

Eating my Words: Big W and Coloured Denim

I bought a pair of coloured jeans yesterday.

I have been wearing them non stop (ok, not quite non stop, as I slept in my nightie, but pretty consistently nonetheless) since.

When coloured denim first blipped my radar a couple of years ago, my first response was: FART NOISES. I proceeded to ignore the trend, ostrich style. Head in the sand, baby. If I passed a hipster or seven wearing red, banana yellow, or sky blue jeans, I’d snort and proceed to denigrate them to my companions.

Last month, however, I noticed a rather fetching pair of electric blue skinny jeans in a Big W advertisement. I know, I know. I hear you. Big W?? Big Why-are-you-even???? And COLOURED DENIM? WHAT ABOUT THE FART NOISES??

I have written previously about the benefits of overlooking stylistic prejudices before, and, in a bid to overcome, decided to swing past the women’s wear section of The Dub before heading to home wares (cushion insert), hardware (3M hooks), and books (the Hunger Games Trilogy as a birthday gift).

WELL.

Aside from the decidedly budget change rooms, I found the experience a highly rewarding one. Big W Woden didn’t have the electric blue denims in stock, but that was fine, because I found a fabulous pair in the lushest shade of green (I believe the closest match is Juniper Green in Derwent pencils if you need a visual). I even loved the navy and gold print sleeveless blouse I had tried on, for arguments’ sake, with the jeans.

Better yet, the whole outfit, jeans and blouse (which I’m planning on pencil skirting tomorrow for work) came to LESS THAN $40.

And the store radio station played I Want To Know What Love Is immediately followed by Teenage Dream.

BELIEVE.

In the words of Elizabeth David, there are worse things to eat than your words. And when the reward is cheap-yet-awesome-and-versatile kit, I’ll happily eat a whole plateful, plus seconds.

In fact, I’m heading into the civic store next weekend. I’m mighty tempted by the aubergine pair…

Jeanius.

1) Select store. Avoid anywhere vaguely fashionable.
2) Locate the denim section of the store. Take three deep breaths.
3) Reject denim that features the following: whiskering, fading, back pocket detailing, acid wash, rhinestones.
4) Select the following: two styles, no more, in at least two sizes each. The styles ought to be significantly different fits. You may also select two different colour washes, but no more. The purpose is to take a deep, rather than a wide, sample, to comprehensively establish the validity of a particular jean.
5) Enter change room. Reject help of sales assistant.
6) Remove all clothes except undergarments.
7) Group jeans according to style, in descending size order, darkest colours first.
8) Take jeans off hanger. Insert lower legs into jeans. Pull up.
9) Using belt loops for leverage, ease jeans over thighs. If you are aiming for a fitted jean, the following sub steps apply:
i. Insert fingers into belt loops.
ii. Jump into the air whilst holding belt loops.
iii. Land, still holding belt loops, in order to completely insert thighs into slim fitting jeans.
iv. Assure sales assistant that you do not need help, or at least, not any that s/he can provide.
10) Button jeans. Do zip. Take three deep breaths. If jeans remain buttoned, proceed to step 11. If not, take jeans off and repeat steps 8-10 with alternate fit style.
11) Critically assess jean. If the denim is grazing the floor in bare feet, the length is acceptable. If the denim smoothly upholsters thighs, the cut through the leg is also acceptable. If you cannot see the outline of your labia, and the zip sits as a ‘V’ rather than a ‘W’, the fit around your hips is acceptable and you are taking appropriate steps to risk manage camel toe.
12) Critically assess muffin top. If overhang is greater than one inch, repeat steps 8-11 with alternate fit style. If overhang is minimal (one inch or less) but the jeans feel firm, address the following additional criteria:
i. Is it your special time of the month? If so, the jeans are the correct size. You will shrink by the end of next week.
ii. Does the fabric contain elastin, spandex, or lycra? If so, the jeans are the correct size. Stretch fabrics will expand an inch at minimum with wear.
iii. Is it the afternoon or evening? If so, the jeans are the correct size. You will shrink when you are no longer pregnant with a food baby.
13) Turn around. Make use of double view mirror in change room. If you see two bottom cheeks, the jeans are the correct size. If you see four or more bottom cheeks, repeat steps 8-13 with alternate fit style.
14) Turn around to face the mirror. Give yourself a high five/fist pump. You are a jeanius.

Could it be TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld? And Other Fish Parenting Dramas.

I’ve held off writing about this for the last week, scared to jinx anything, but I am now pleased to report that, after months of umming and ahhhing, I now am the proud owner of a fish tank. A rather glamorous tropical fish tank, if you must know, replete with plant life and two (for now) rather charming angel fish.

They are called TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld and DiamondsAndPearls. I think I should rename myself TheMostAwesomeBestowerOfNamesOfAllTime. This coming week I plan on adding a couple of suckerfish to the tank to help keep algae down. I think I’m going to have to lewdly name the suckers DirtyMind and IWannaBeYourLover. Eventually, I hope to have about 6 angelfish and 2 suckers, but I’ve been advised that it’s best to establish a fish population gradually. Something about bacteria, filters, and the alignment of Neptune and Pluto, no doubt. But back to the original story…

A couple of Fridays ago, Zsuzannah Verona and I made our way out to Fyshwick (what a wonderful suburb of Canberra – so much more to it than porn and pyrotechnics) to investigate fish options. A half hour later, Zusannah Verona and I were loading my car with an aquarium, a heater, a filter, some rocks and plants, a ph tester kit, some fish food…but no fish! This was because, according to the friendly man at the fish store, the tank needed to be established, the ph tested, the filter operationalised, and the temperature juuuust right before my fishy friends would be able to call my apartment their home. (This is the benefit of going to a reputable aquarium supplier – they really know their stuff and can get quite bossy about it, in the BEST possible way). Given the amount of (highly enjoyable) fuss and preparation my fish were demanding, I felt it only reasonable that they have diva-tastic names to reflect this. Hence, Zsusannah and I settled on Prince Song Titles as the naming theme for the fish. I feel that The Purple One would deem this most appropriate.

Zusannah excelled herself in her petgodparent duties. Without her calm guidance, I am convinced that the filter would have been put together wrong, the tank insufficiently filled, and the plants poorly arranged. We went out and ate some pho to celebrate (incidentally, Vietman Café at Woden does a fantastic pho – well worth a visit).

Perhaps, though, celebrations were premature. When I went back to the fish store later that afternoon, having double checked to satisfy myself that, yes, the tank was ideally ph’d, heated, and planted, I realised, rather foolishly, that I was going to have to delicately balance my small plastic bag containing two teeny tiny and quite scared angel fish while I drove the ten minutes back to my place.

What I should have done, with hindsight, was rest the bag on my lap as I drove. What I did, really really foolishly, was sit the bag in the passenger seat footwell, which meant that every time I turned a corner, the unsecured bag rolled about chaotically, giving my fish a significantly more traumatic start to life than I had planned. Fish parenting FAIL.

Clearly, though, angel fish have evolved to survive owner stupidity, and I was relieved to see when I pulled up at my apartment that the fish, although disoriented, had not retreated to that great aquarium in the sky.

The dramas were not to end there, though. Following my instructions to the letter, I allowed the fish to float in their bag in the tank for ten minutes to grow accustomed to the temperature. So far so good. Then, I opened the bag, submerged it to allow some tank water in, and allowed the fish to gently get used to their new water for about fifteen minutes. I went away to answer some emails, and came back to see how my piscean friends were doing.

DiamondsAndPearls was the only fish in the bag.

I had lost TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld.

(At this point, it’s worth mentioning that DiamondsAndPearls is pure white, and TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld is black. The background of my fish tank is black. Perfect camouflage, much?)

I searched high, I searched low. I rustled all the tank plants. I took apart the heater and filter, dreading that TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld had met a tragic end in the filtration pump. No sign. I checked behind the tank, fearing that she’d committed hari-kari and jumped over the edge. No little black fish corpses were to be seen. I was just about to give up and concede incompetence in the fish parenting stakes when, from behind a large green leaf, I glimpsed a shimmer of black tail.

Could it be TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld??

Ten minutes later, I saw movement over near the driftwood I had installed for fishtacular fun and games. Definite proof of life, and proof that I am not completely incompetent in the fish parenting stakes, despite some early setbacks.

A week and a bit has passed, and, while DiamondsAndPearls, her showier tank companion, is all over the attention-from-the-humans thing like white on rice, TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld, like all things of true beauty, can only be seen when you aren’t looking for her. But when you do catch a glimpse, it’s plain to see the reason why I couldn’t name her anything else.

Gym Fashions: Discuss.

Since last spring, I’ve been going to Body Pump classes a couple of times a week at my local gym. And, by golly, I love Pump. I love the daggy music, especially the bicep track to a dreadful cover of ‘Eye of the Tiger’. I love that my local gym is run by the YMCA, and, as such, is a bit more budget than other gyms I’ve gone to in the past. I love that there are no mirrors in the group fitness room (seriously, I do not need to see myself from all possible angles as I tone). I love that I can feel my body getting stronger and that, after that first ten minutes, the endorphins kick in and I’m having a blast even though muscles I never thought I had are aching. I love the smug feeling I get when reading health recommendations regarding physical exercise, because I’m Just Do(ing) It. I love the sexual-political innuendo that Pump instructors slip in (tee hee) – yes, I can go deeper, can you? YES, OH, YES, WE CAN.

What I don’t love, though, is gym fashion. It’s the (sweaty) pits. I personally can’t do the Lorna Jane esque work out outfit – a singlet in a pastel colour, motivational slogan optional, and a pair of three quarter length leggings. Which, incidentally, become transparent when sweaty – your call as to whether you want the person behind you to know far too much about you after you’ve shared a deep and meaningful squat track together.

Some people can get away with the cute gym girl look. Specifically Elle Woods. Others can’t. Specifically me, although Elle and I share a lot of other commonalities (a subject for another post). See the problem is, I’m no gym poser. When I go, I go hard (tee hee). So, I get hot. Really hot. And Sweaty. Really sweaty, and sweaty everywhere, even, bizarrely, my elbows. It’s like they’re crying little tears of sweat. That cute pastel outfit? It’s soaked and clinging two minutes into the squat track. Me? I’m just a hot mess (and not in a good way).

So what I’ve been wearing of late to the gym is my around the house outfit - Gasp – because it is comfortable and I don’t have to be distracted by it during my workout. I can instead concentrate on perfect form, and that bead of sweat about to drip from the end of my nose. I’m OK with the bottom portion of this outfit, namely my country road grey marle track pants – they’re cotton, so they breathe, and they’re dark enough to not show sweat. They’re also rather flattering, if a pair of track pants can be called such. (Next winter I’m buying myself three pairs: one for home, one for gym, and one for those visits to Costco or greater Queanbeyan when only your best going out trackies will do).

On top, though, is where the real problems begin. I’ve been wearing my grey marle ANU tee shirt. Which I love to bits, like all my ANU tee shirts before it. It’s big and baggy, which means I’m deliciously cool and comfortable in it. It’s also long, which is great for my longer torso, particularly as I don’t want to share my belly with everyone in class during overhead lifting sets. It’s also got a super high crew neck, so I, and my Pump classmates, are safe from accidental boob flashes (I have seen this happen A LOT at gyms. I refuse to let my nipples become a pair of bouncy statistics)

Problem is, though, it’s the most singularly unflattering garment in all creation. I honestly feel the need to walk around each member of class after we finish, and explain to them that, actually, I’m normally pretty stylish, and, actually, yes, I have a waist, a real one, under the overhanging outcrop of my bust, and, actually, no, I’m not a swamp creature, and, actually, yes, I do dress in colours other than grey marle. Although, to be fair, most people, myself included, are so thoroughly Pumped out that they don’t give a damn about style, waists, busts, swamps and grey marle. Just get me a hot shower and some tiger balm, stat.

Maybe this whole ANU tee shirt thing is a good learning exercise for me, proving that yes, I can look like a total dag, go out, in public, with other people, and still have a great time. But I still think (to use a Pumpism) that I ought to BRING IT a bit more in the style stakes at the gym, without compromising the physicality that is, after all, the aim of the game.

So this week, in between setting exams, grading papers, and writing thesis, I’m going in search of Gym Tee Shirt Perfection. And I’m going hard. Because, OH YES, I can.

Wardrobe

I mentioned in a previous post that I’ve recently moved into an apartment on my own, and I’m enjoying it very much. I think at least 80% of that enjoyment comes from my the size of my new wardrobe.

It’s at least three meters of built in, mirror fronted, all hanging goodness (I’m a hanger, not a folder – less ironing!). It’s massive. It’s huge. It’s amazing.

I never thought that having a big wardrobe would change my life and the way I approach getting dressed in the morning, but it does. Every morning, I slide open the doors and consult my clothing options (sorted into sections: tops/skirts/short and mid dresses/long dresses). My shoes are stowed in handy hanging shoe racks (thanks, IKEA). Belts and camisoles have a respective drawer. It’s all organized, all ordered, and all beautiful.

The cultural zeitgeist at the moment seems to be all about doing things Mindfully – usually eating or walking. My thoughts on this? Big Yawn with Arm Stretch. I love food, love eating while I read the paper, love eating while chatting with friends and family face to face and on the phone, love munching on a really good apple while I go for a walk. I don’t have the time or the inclination to roll a raisin around on my tongue for ten minutes before eating it. Enough already. Just eat. Same with walking. I have no desire to do walking mediations – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I’m too busy indulging in rock star daydreams, MA15+ conversations with girlfriends, and deep diving into vitally important issues (global warming, education systems, celebrity baby names). I just like to get out and enjoy myself, no complex mindfulness procedure necessary.

Pondering the pleasure that I get from my wardrobe and dressing in the morning, though, I can’t help but wonder if I’m a mindful dresser, if not a mindful eater or walker. That ten minutes I spend absorbed in choosing, combining, trying and adjusting is ten minutes in my day when I’m entirely focused on one task, and one task only, appreciating every piece of clothing in my well planned wardrobe, feeling like a glamorous diva, in the manner of Beyonce, even when I’m just pulling on track pants.

Mindfulness? Wishful thinking? Whatever it is, I like it, a lot. And it’s all thanks to my big wardrobe.

The Power of Madonna

Down? Troubled? Approaching a milestone or an exciting new phase in your life?

I’ve got two words to say to you:

Fashion.

Montage.

Oh yes.

Inspired by film sequences where characters progress through a range of spectacular outfits to an empowering soundtrack, I decided it was time to go through my wardrobes – as in, take all clothes out, dump clothes bed, try clothes on, strut, place clothes back in wardrobes in neat and orderly fashion, select and recombine combinations of clothing for job interviews in upcoming weeks. All whilst listening to two rotations of Madonna’s The Immaculate Collection.

Some eerie synchronicity between my try-ons and The Immaculate Collection:

My favorite duck-egg-blue summer party frock…and Cherish, my favorite of Madonna’s summer-y love songs. Just had to twirl.

A suit jacket, bra, and scary stomach holding in bike shorts…and Express Yourself. I kid you not, I didn’t intentionally recreate The Madg’s costume for that clip. I was just checking the jacket still fitted – promise!

Orange smock top and loose skirt…and Papa Don’t Preach – frightening.

But, most portentously, the perfect job interview dress and cardigan… and Vogue!

I needed no further prompting that this was the outfit I was meant to wear, as I vogued to the music in my bedroom. And I reminded myself that I deserve the power of Madonna - we all deserve the power of Madonna – and the power of a great interview outfit.

A Long, Tall Drink of Water

Because this is an anonymous blog, and I don’t post pictures of myself, there are several things about my appearance you may not know. One of which is that I’m rather tall. About 5’9, in old money. After reading in the SMH’s Good Weekend magazine that the ideal height men nominated for a woman was 163cm, I got to thinking about my height.

I’ve often whished myself shorter. When I was in school, being shorter would have meant sitting with the girls rather than standing with the boys in school photographs. When I began college and uni, being shorter would have meant that I could have gone unnoticed a little more in class, rather than sticking out like a very tall sore thumb. Being shorter would mean that off the rack dresses and skirts would be the right length at the hemline and arms. Being shorter would mean that I would be substantially less clumsy – less distance for wires to get crossed between my brain and my feet. It would also mean that I would be ‘cute’, rather than ‘handsome’, that people would not look up to me (literally), and that I could get away with some more ‘out there’ clothes and make up without worrying that I looked like a female impersonator.

On the other hand…

Being tall means I can reach the high shelves in my wardrobe without a stepladder. Being tall means that I can wear patterned tights because of the extra yardage in the leg department. Being tall makes it hard for me to be overlooked in a meeting, seminar, or tutorial, and it’s nice to have to force myself to think of not-too-stupid things to contribute. Being tall, so I’ve been told, gives a person a natural air of authority, and, as such I’m capable of bringing my classes into line by standing up when I talk to them (freakily, this does work). Being tall means that I can wear big hats without looking like an elf. Being tall means that I walk fast – and given room allocations at uni this semester, I cannot be grateful enough for my super fast walking capabilities, even if it is a clumsy trot rather than an elegant stride.

So, on balance, whilst 163cm might be the ideal height for the average woman, 175cm might just be the ideal height for me.