Lost and found

For the longest time, I lost all my sense of fashion, and the desire to look good, smell great. I actually miss my wispy curly long hair, which has been tamed to be stick straight and jet black at the same time. Yes, I never looked more like a Chinese import.

It was 2 weeks ago when I reacquainted myself with a trusty issue of Herworld. For too long, I had been lost in magazines like Cleo and Seventeen, swearing off magazines that cost more than $6 each, because they were draining away my resources, and were putting me in a huge state of depression, which was inevitable, since a pair of Manolo = paycheck.

I don’t even indulge in high street brands like Topshop and River Island, save for the fact that I would splurge on their denim skirts. Anything else, forget about it.

So I committed a fashionista’s suicide. I stopped my dosage of glossy magazines and went on to read teeny bopper publications. I must say, they’re making a huge effort to revamp and impress. But it struck me last week that, I am not a kid anymore.

I’ll save all the “womanhood” jimbang. I am, plainly put, growing old – too old for bold colours; too old for ill-cut frocks that look cheap. I dressed older when I was seventeen than now. Okay, that’s pathological.

Going back on track with Herworld, and the most opportune screening of Sex and the City (affectionately, SATC), I was shaken so hard, I came to a shocking stir that almost burst the vessels in my head. So aptly put by Mr. Big, John J Preston, “What the fuck was I thinking?”

So now, once again, I ogle at the Loewes and Hermés-s with this rekindled sense of pride and belonging to fashion – not that I’m going to afford them for the good next 10 years, but that rush when you see the artful, personifying materialization of design and quality, it is gratifying, even though the closest I can get to them is sniff them through the 120gsm wood-free paper.

The other side of me speaks, however, I am addicted to Cotton On. Never have I thought the budget outfit store could do such damage to my pocket. My heart was dented when I suffered from post-non-purchase remorse. I regretted not buying these 2 for $20 tops so badly, I was almost stoic on Saturday. When the boyfriend caught me in a daze, he casually, but candidly remarked: “You’re thinking about the tops right?”

How did he know?!

Guilty as charged, I’m a clothes-whore. I cannot fathom the lack of budget stores in my life. I live pretty much like Vintage Bunny (a vintage, thrift store connoisseur). I scour through budget shops and once I see sizes L-XL, I throw them on like no tomorrow. My mantra, if it fits, doesn’t make me look like an idiot, and is below $15, I’m sold. Or rather, they’re sold.

So I’m heading down on Tuesday to Dhoby Ghaut (I pretty much prefer the huge store at Novena Square, my favourite haunt of the moment) to get my 2 for $20 tops. If they’re not available, I’ll accept my fate. If I can find a better offer there on Tuesday that is. Someone heal my soul.

I’m suffering from some bipolar disorder here. I want things cheap and chic (btw, Moschino is not cheap at all) and nice. And then I want things branded. I think I’m driving myself crazy by this very virtue. Such toxic self-love.

And so, I will, shall, make an effort to dress up although my work does not require me to. Who knows? I might need to do that soon.

It sure feels good to catch up with an old friend. Losing my sense of fashion, is equivalent to losing myself.

 

~ by janathema on June 9, 2008.