THE BARDOT BLOUSE - TWINNING WITH THE ENTIRE POPULATION

I like what I like. I can say that *pretty* confidently. 

(The woman who launched a thousand shivering shoulders - welcome to British summertime)

Not many people understand the necessity of sequin leggings to a 9am lecture but I am ever committed to following my every fashion whim and that I continue to do. 

Of course pop culture affects my sartorial proclivities in that it permeates the high street and thus what is readily available to me. And though I can't say that I seek to look like any particular person other than myself, there are times that individuality conflates with imitation. Despite your darnedest attempts to stay authentic to your personal view point, mass production and fast fashion aid in the contagion of sameness.  

Other times, it is a conscious choice that I adopt a 'look' in spite of it being what is basically the uniform of the zeitgeist. And whilst, as stated earlier, I have conviction in my tastes, I can't deny that upon seeing myself as a mere doppelgänger of my entire generation, the reality usually derails any commitment that I once felt to said look, acting to underscore that I was in fact seduced into a trend. Yuck!

(Off the shoulder & yellow - two of my new favourite things/ Distressed denim & what I originally thought was a crate of beer - the perfect accoutrements)

The whole process may unfold something like this; I see an item, - perhaps on another person; I like the item; I set out to find said item or similar; I find and purchase; I wear the item and inevitably see others wearing something similar. On validation that the item I like is too liked by others, I am immediately put-off. I was not autonomous in my choice. I feel 'trendy' and therefore try-hard. 

I tried the tie-front blouse and the button up suede skirts of 2015 but both with much trepidation and a self-consciousness that left them, for the majority, unworn. These items were so ingrained in the fashion of the time that marrying them up with myself felt forced, on the surface we were a match, but the 'look' quarrelled with my personal style and ultimately we had to consciously uncouple. It was better for the both of us.  

(Leandra Medine showcasing the joys of living the off-the-shoulder life)

Then 'Summer' (can we even call it that?!) 2016 appeared and with it the Bardot blouse (or off-the-shoulder top), and I really, really liked it. My previous aversion to that which is trendy forced me to do some real soul searching (JK), but could I handle twinning with the masses? Should this even be a debate? If I like something, should it really matter if anyone else shares my opinion? Really I should be congratulating their good taste. 

With that said, if I could overcome my hesitancy and integrate with the wardrobe of society, when the Bardot blouse were to eventually fall out of trend, would I have the confidence to remain committed to the look purely out of love and thereafter face being labelled, shock horror, 'un-trendy'? Would people assume I was just late to the party? However, with Brigitte Bardot as the brand ambassador of the trend, surely the rest of us, despite our best attempts, remain eclipsed by her immortal image (see above), going unnoticed as unknowns wearing clothes with shoulders exposed to the affects of sun damage. There's nothing radical here, so should we even give an eff where we fall on the spectrum of 'in fashion' or 'out of fashion' or 'on trend' or 'off trend'?

With the pace at which fashion recycles itself, inevitably I will be ahead of the trend at some point. Alas that is the fickleness of fashion. Just as one should never be forced into following a trend, one should never be forced out of a trend either. As the saying that overtook YOLO goes, you do you. So when the flock has officially given the Bardot blouse the cold shoulder, I swear on the sanctity of Wintour's bob that my shoulders will remain defiantly bare until the end ... of summer that is and then I'll add more layers than a 'My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding' wedding cake. 

(According to the Medine life of style, the off-the-shoulder blouse is winter appropriate too)

(None of the above images are my own: fusty.com, pinterest, manrepeller.com)

YELLOW OR BUST?

I am not a yellow person. 

I'm not exactly sure what a 'yellow person' looks like (I guess there'd be some yellow somewhere?) but I'm 78% positive that I'm not one.

Though in true contrary Karen Smith form, I make this declaration whilst in fact wearing yellow. She always was my favourite Mean Girl.

I realise that I have written about my aversion to yellow before, but I feel it important to remain authentic to my current sartorial dilemmas and this one just will not quit. Just as water is wet, sunshine is yellow and as we all know, sunshine invigorates all feelings of happiness. Now, who am I to condemn happiness? 

But the stylistic quandaries of yellow still abound. The question that continues to arise is this: what on earth does one pair with yellow?

Does one need to dilute a yellow outfit with contrasting accents? According to the rules of style by Solange Knowles, no, one definitely does not (see Google search if further proof is needed). However, few are bold enough to attempt a head to toe look that resembles Big Bird so closely. Sesame Street twinning aside Big Bird's commitment to yellow has outlasted many marriages. Despite this I feel that my introduction into the yellow cartel need be more subtle. No orange knee-highs or blue eye shadow for me just yet. 

Then there's Cher Horowitz who embraced yellow plaid with the ease that most people slip on their sweats after the daily grind. Yellow plaid was hereafter so intertwined with Cher Horowitz the character that any adopters of the look appear now as mere imitators of a costume that was constructed to epitomise the ridiculousness (and fun) of fashion (See also Dion's Cat in the Hat outfit and the girl's gym class attire). But I feel the probability of looking "ensemble-y challenged" is just too great.

And so I turn to Olivia Palermo as I do so often in times of true sartorial disillusionment. And I can't help but exclaim, "OF COURSE! Why didn't I think of that?!"  Pairing fuchsia with canary yellow? Duh! And greeny-yellow with blue denim and red accessories? I'm face-planting into my palm right now. My fears of seeming like a human bumble bee evaporate as I see Olivia offsetting her vibrant yellow overcoat with black leather trousers and a chunky black knit jumper. It's so simple. Never fussy. I feel like the Churchill dog as my head shakes continuously in disbelief. Maybe I'm making this yellow aversion into a thing that isn't actually a thing?

Clearly I'm drawn to yellow so maybe I'm missing the point in that yellow connotes fun, ergo wearing it should be fun also. Though coercing yourself into having fun is no fun at all, a little reminder to lighten up is always much appreciated. And so as the sun comes out so does the lighter side of me and my wardrobe. I know that Solange would be proud.  

(Images via: independent.co.uk, gurls.com, ew.com, whowhatwear.com, thefashionspot.com, luxelookbook, stylechi, celebs.allwomenstalk.com & my Instagram (@w_sophia)

TURNING BACK TO FACE YOU ALL

Though I may be back I refuse to preface this post with such a lofty statement. The premise of which is so often compelled with genuine intention, but more often crumples forlorn under the weight of such pressure. 

The fact is I love clothes. And as I've said before, it is more than material deep. I know one is limited in making any profound statements when the very thing itself is so tied up in materialism and surface value, but throughout my life clothing has been my chosen medium of communication, my coping mechanism, my jumping off board into conversation. It was often much easier to tell the story of myself through the seams of fabric that abounded my body, rather than the words that bumbled from my mouth. 

I was, and still very much to this day, am a contradiction - so quiet in myself, yet so bold in my sartorial choices. It was innate, thought went into every outfit I have ever worn, yet it was never a choice, always a compulsion. 

Then I got stuck. Reading fashion bored me, I impatiently skipped words, then sentences then whole stories altogether. The blogs I had (non-stalkerishly) come to view as friends - one-sided pen-pals if you will - fell from my computer history. My clothes became about comfort and ease rather than creativity and me. I felt implored to take on a new me and in spite of the fit not being quite right, I ignored the snugness and discomfort. 

The early mornings of my new 'grown-up' job left my eyes blurry and my mind focused on adult concerns like 'brush hair - remember matching shoes - don't be late for morning meeting'. Suddenly discerning whether sequin leggings where appropriate daytime attire didn't quite seem like a feasible problem to have when you're existing off of printer toner fumes and mainlining coffee. 

The blog never left my mind, but the content that kept floating into my brain felt stale, like I was plagiarising my former, more creatively adept, self. 

Christmas came and I had no juice to fuel words, the New Year exploded into life and yet no amount of party poppers and paper hat wearing could razzle dazzle a story out of me. I was stunted, but then I realised that this blog has always been grounded in the personal musings of me, my whims, my moods, my concerns, my opinions. Of course the same issues may appear on this blog, but I believe enough in my own voice, that those very things will never be rehashed and always have new verve, every single time they register enough within my conscience to warrant me writing about them. 

I live in Wales, so of course the weather will play a determining factor in my outfit construction almost daily, and shoes will forever remain a love of mine. This is after all a blog about me, myself and I, and slowly  all three of us are realising that to not fit the mould is ok, but to force yourself into the semblance of someone other than you, is not. So instead of saying 'I'm back', how about I welcome you back into the fold. 

(None of the above pictures are my own and I do not claim responsibility for them)

THE TIGHTS GOT IT

The sun's out, get your tights on. 

I think it's called symbiosis; when two dissimilar things coincide with one another. I mean it makes total sense right? Like cheese and jam. 

It's warm (ish) outside, you want to release that new gingham dress from the confines of wardrobedom but the clouds are moving in, it may or may not be currently drizzling and the sun is causing you to overheat sporadically. Short of upper lip sweat, this couldn't get any worse. And then you notice that you should have left ten minutes ago to get to work exactly five minutes before your boss arrives. Panic ensues. What to do?! 

Perhaps I should reintroduce you to your oft overlooked tights drawer. Untangle a pair, any pair will do and leave right now. Forget the coffee, you're running off of pure anxiety anyway, the fumes of which will carry you through until lunch break, and after that, smugness at your resplendent outfit construction will allow your day to continue on in Anna Wintour approved style. Take a selfie, it's been a good day.

The BFF of tights, otherwise known as the dress, is ease embodied, covering your modesty in one shimmy and a shrug. But alas, some days full leg exposure is just not it. Enter the tights. 

The probability of your tights receiving anything more than a sigh of relief at the last hoist is slimmer than a whittled down toothpick. Yet, the humble tights deserve some recognition, just a quick thanks for covering my legs when regrowth appears in that pesky way that it does so and fake tan patchiness leaves you far too closely reminiscent of a sepia toned zebra for any excuses to feasibly explain.  

I look to pop culture to strengthen my rather wordy point here. See Blair Waldorf of Gossip Girl and her consistent commitment to maximising the fashion potential of every extremity. Tights were seldom black and rarely opaque because evidently it's go bold or get off the Met steps. Similarly, Willow Rosenberg of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, co-ordinated her looks from H to T, (that's hat to tights FYI). Both  looks aren't for the faint of heart or clumsy of ways for that matter - ladders and/or holes are never cute, sorry Courtney Love. 

I hereby suggest you develop a fast affinity with black or navy, the denier is down to personal preference but remember there is a distinct difference between thick tights and leggings - namely that tights are never trousers, whereas leggings have already *sadly* been adopted by the obviously mirror-less masses. We can see your ass honey, and what you had for breakfast... 

Never fear an unexpected drizzle again. Give your skinnys the day off and go dance in the rain; though I should mention that I cannot be held accountable for any colds caught, however, any outfit compliments received are totally my doing. 

(Images via: vogue.com, glamour.com, styledumonde.com)

GINGHAM MORE

So after my very rambunctious proclamation that I am in fact back, I rather ironically, disappeared from the blogosphere. But I must assure you that I wasn't re-enacting every 90's pop groups' failed attempt at a come back. Rather the internet rudely up and left me, resulting in a disconnect from the digital world and thus no postage of late. And that brings us back to the here and now, and more importantly to the issue at hand, which is namely my new fixation on everything and anything gingham. 

The only accompaniment fit for Dorothy's ruby red slippers, has shirked its picnic blanket schtick and, thanks in large part to Diane Von Furstenberg's SS15 collection, become the only thing necessary for summer - or life if you're feeling as committed (&/or dramatic) as I am. 

I feel that gingham is more oft overlooked than its other patterned compadres. The breton stripe for example is a permanent fixture on my instagram feed, as is a smattering of ye olde leopard print (I describe it as such because in my opinion leopard print is eternally chic, amen) which I can't say I'm sorry for at all. Gingham is however seemingly relegated to warmer climes and what with us living in the UK where the weather is constantly pms-ing, the time just never feels quite right to don the simpler counterpart of plaid. But the question I'd like to address is, why?   

Don't you people own a vest? Or an imagination? Because evidently I didn't until I consciously acknowledged my consistent gravitation to anything remotely checkered. For the first time ever I finally empathised with Homer Simpson. It was quite the outer body experience, as what can only be considered an epiphany occurred right there in the middle of Zara (where all life changing things happen, right?). I had my first real life 'Doh!' moment. I hope the similarities end there, I don't know how I'd dress the beer belly or accessorise the balding head... 

There I was in my natural environment (i.e. shopping) with a peplum, plunge neckline, backless, gingham top in hand, the only thing it lacked was the ability to make me a sandwich and would you believe it, I put it back!!! This is definitely worthy of three exclamation marks and should hereafter be known as a situation. Since this event, I feel a sartorial emptiness. My wardrobe as is, is just not quite enough. The void is real as is the struggle. Gingham has since photobombed every scenario of life, becoming a spectre of sorts reminding me of my bad judgement.

Then I found it.

Or rather it whispered to me, lulled me in, flirted with me a little, caressed my body with its fabric swathes and that was that, I was hooked. Cash was being handed over before I'd even checked the size, let alone the price. And here it sits. Happily winking at me from the sanctuary of my wardrobe. 

Is love of a material item materialistic? Something this pure and real surely can't be... Weirdly I haven't worn it outside yet. The weather seems to be against our union but I have a feeling that you can't keep a zip fronted, shirt dress with an adorable drawstring waist, floaty skirt and (obv) gingham pattern locked away for too long. For now, pictures and pirouetting in my bedroom will have to suffice but as soon as the clouds break, we're outta here. 

(Images via: brit.co, romantiqueandrebel.com, whowhatwear.com,  pinterest, missyellestore.blogspot.com)

BACK AGAIN

Sometimes shit happens. Other times, a new job happens. Both incur a level of self evaluation that seems accordant with the quarter life crisis (or is it crises?) of us over dramatic twenty-somethings.

(Donut worry!)

It's almost zeitgeist-y. We're surrounded by various social media platforms that both encourage and facilitate self absorption. You have a problem? The remedy obviously lies within the sanctity of a cryptic, yet totally transparent 140 characters right? Is the fun really happening if it hasn't made the cut on at least one Instagram account? We either publicly voice our woes, like the tortured generation that we are, or just enjoy the freedom of youth (i.e get drunk - a lot). Both incite a level of non-commitment. 

Why deal with our issues when a Facebook 'like' can send our self-worth sky rocketing? Who needs self reflection when there's shots to be taken?  The commonality here is that both are means of avoidance. And that's exactly what I have been doing in taking an extended vacay from this blog. 

Rest assured, I haven't become a part-time alcoholic slamming back the tequila or a real life Moaning Myrtle, airing my woes willy-nilly online. Rather my frustrations led me to a laryngitis of creativity if you will. Fashion has always offered me solace but whilst I was clearing tables and picking chewing gum out of coffee cups, it sought as a painful reminder of how far away my dream really was, cementing my status as a self-professed failure. 

Since finishing university I have spent my time living life as a check list. Doing things, or feeling bad about not doing things, because I thought that's what people my age were supposed to be doing. And frankly it's been exhausting. Holding myself and my life up to a set of (highly filtered) standards is draining to say the least.

My passion was non-existant. I was deflated and disinterested. The surprise of getting a new job caught me unawares and I was plagued with self-doubt. My time was filled with trying to adjust to office life. 8pm was my new bed time as 5am became my new call time. 

Yet eventually, as with all things, the new became the norm and forced routine been the regular. I have learnt that there is actually life before 9.30am and that there are two 6 o'clocks in one day. I now know the meaning of the 'humpday' and the joys of having weekends off. 

So far I have learnt to feign dislike for tea to avoid making the office round; to salute everyone but avoid referring to anyone specifically until 100% sure of their name; and to leave my oversized (read, often bra/boob exposing) tops at home. I'm still at the stabiliser stage of 'workwear' as my guidelines were unhelpful at best ("this isn't a fashion show. Wear whatever you want" I was told). Catsuit it is then (!) 

However, life is starting to feel more stable, which granted, to some is code for boring but when uncertainty and unfulfillment have taken up long-term residence in my consciousness, become unwelcome bed fellows and the whisperer of woes past, present and future, it comes as a much welcomed respite. Who knew that 9-5 (or more, 7-3) was the answer to my yearnings? I finally feel like I have direction, like the fuzzy mist of those early-twenty's has finally cleared to reveal a surprising path, one that I look forward to not only treading, but living. 

(Images via: careergirldaily.com, unknown, kalifornia-klasss.tumblr.com)

IT'S ALL ABOUT THE MONEY

There's this strange thing that happens whilst I'm shopping online. 

(Does money maketh the outfit?)

You should know that I despise shopping online. I'm a tactile shopper. I love to touch and fondle fabrics, to hold potential purchases to my body and play pretend, to hook them over my arm and wander through the store, umming and ahhing as to which will make the cut. Scrolling through reams of pictures, perfect in their staged digital presence, quickly becomes monotonous to me. 

However, occasionally boredom creeps in and the expanse of sartorial temptation that the internet offers becomes far too much. I fill my basket just because, then promptly forget about my imaginary purchases. They filled the void of time that needed filling and then it's back to the reality of my over-stuffed wardrobe. 

(Plaid & Sequins make for eternal cool regardless of price range)

But that's not the 'strange thing' that happens. I find that when I'm searching the likes of ASOS or Urban Outfitters et al the main thing that draws me to an item is the price point. I'll explain the process. I see an item I like, click the thumbnail, then my eyes immediately flick to the price. My appreciation of the item is wholly dependent on the price reflecting quality, namely that of good quality, which translates as whether the item is expensive, or at least not cheap. 

Perhaps it's the fact that online shopping requires a level of trust that in this day and age is a rarity not often required in any other pastime (yes I would describe shopping as a pastime). To judge a book solely upon it's cover, to take an item purely upon face value and hand over cash based on this presumption. 

(High-end & Low-end is mix & matched)

There is nothing I love more than a bargain, apart from perhaps finding a real bargain. I mean an item that has such a severe saving as to have been reduced from the price of a mortgage deposit to that of a happy meal. It increases its desirability exponentially. Not only are you shelling out less than a Starbucks grande latte but you're getting quality for a fraction of the price. When I spy earrings for example online, the price informs me of what condition to expect when they arrive. It offers a clue and to that end my level of expectation is adjusted.

But there is a flip side to this also. There have been times when faced with the rails and rails of odds at TKMaxx that I find myself almost convinced into buying something purely because it's a name brand at a low price point. I once tried to reconcile myself into believing that I needed this florescent green cable knit jumper under the pretence of never having too many jumpers - I live in Wales after all. It was only after I regained my wits about me that I realised that the driving force behind this uncharacteristically bold knit may have had something to do with Ralph (of the Lauren family) being found on the tag. In this instance the reason behind it's reduction was glaringly obvious. I then proceeded to bump my car, so it truly was a day of misjudgements.   

(Counterbalance a barley-there slip with thick knitwear for a thrifty take on understated glamour)

It's a tricky one. Do you pay more money because you assume the price must mean that the item is worthy of it? And in that same vein, do you purchase items that are marked down but bear a designer name for the same exact reason? Or, do you buy according to your own personal preference, regardless of price point and solely upon your own sartorial proclivities?  

(A sparkly shirt & jeans and print clashing speak of polished fashion without breaking the bank)

The prowess of fashion is in its ability to continually entice you into believing that excess and necessity are one and the same. Online shopping encourages a sense of scepticism which is only combatted by the trust we place in paying for the quality we hope to receive. However, what marks someone out as truly fashionable is the ability to make everything one wears appear expensive no matter its actual price point. So I vow to forgo my incessant price checking and purchase things I like based on the value I place on an item. Isn't mid-way through the year a perfect time to introduce a new New Year's resolution anyway?   

(Images via: WGSN & Unknown. I do not claim credit over any of the above photos)