A QUEST: SELF WORTH FROM WITHIN

What happens when you derive your self worth from others? A compliment here, a ‘well done’ there. Verbal buoys to cling to. Filling you with confidence. Until they don’t. Until there’s a break in the affirmations of others. The deflation starts. The self-doubt fills the void. You’re distracted by the need to receive your next hit of the dopamine only afforded you by others. Your efforts are trained and strained, on winning that pat on the back. 

Yet when you decide to root your self esteem in others, you’re building yourself on unsteady ground. You become entangled in the whims of others. A job well done may go unnoticed and yet while you’re living for their congratulations, they aren’t living to congratulate you. People are fickle, what they thank you for in the am is forgotten by the pm. They’re on to the next issue or problem or distraction, ticking off their list while you limber up for the next hurdle you’re required to jump through in your quest for a thumbs up.

As children, milestones were reached with applause. On unsteady legs we wobbled towards giddy parents, first words were encouraged out of us to the chorus of claps and cheers. So many firsts, so many occasions for excitement. In school colouring inside the lines, learning the alphabet and to count, were met with gold stars. As we got older, text books were signed with written appraisals, ‘well done! :)’  and progressed on to being quantified by percentages and grades, forever aiming for that A*.  

As adults, gold stars and A* have been traded for ‘likes’ and hearts and reaction emojis. And with so much of our lives lived out online, it’s even more difficult to extricate ourselves from the thrill of approval, be it IRL or virtually. Our social media society driven by the visual gratification that literally quantifies how well liked we and the things we’ve done, said, eaten are. The thrill of the count as the hearts and likes rise and the disappointment when they don’t. The curation, the edit, tweaked to gain the most appreciation. The more followers the better the person you are, because look how many people ‘like’ you and support your ability to take a stellar pic of the foam art on your coffee. 

The insidious nature of social media has been well documented, the reality of what we’re seeing being questionable, the inevitable comparison to others, the needing to post to remain relevant, the not living up to your own hype, the self infatuation, the self flagellation. Like me, like me. The enjoyment of any real life event only realised once the likes have been counted. Posts deleted because despite a great day, the numbers don’t warrant a permanent spot on the grid. The followers count creeping up as your faux popularity grows. 

But without stars and badges and grades and likes, how do we know that we’re doing well? How do we know that we matter? That we’re doing life right? How the spreadsheet that we spent half a day working on, compares to other spreadsheets that others have been working on? We have performance reviews in work, although they’re often wrapped up in HR fluff, but we don’t get check ins on how well we’re doing as a friend, sister, daughter, partner. We rely wholly on the sign posts laid out to us by others. An invite to coffee here translates to, ‘they must like us as they want to spend time with us’, right? Right?

Constant second guessing as we navigate a world that is so ready to show us our failings and lackings. In competition with the anonymous everyone’s of online and the force of the tug of societies’ expectations. While we do and do-over and build and rebuild, we look for the approval of others as directions as to where we’re supposed to be. Gorging off the buzz, only to be ravenous hereafter. A diet of chasing the carrot, great for seeing in the dark, but who can be sustained wholly by carrots? So how to disengage from the chase for approval?

I recently received a ‘thank you’ on my work’s intranet, a platform for peer to peer recognition. It was unexpected, not because I didn’t feel that it was deserved, but because I didn’t think that anyone had noticed. And perhaps that’s all it amounts to; validation. That someone sees us and acknowledges us. 

A well done is great. A thumbs up is great and while these things alone don’t amount to greatness, to be seen is powerful. In a world as fast past and small and broad and narrow minded and expansive and as terrifying and as exciting and as unexpected, to be singled out for the good, is meaningful, even if it’s only fleeting. The chase for validation only amounts to emptiness and very tired legs, but the thrill of recognition is addictive.

So how to sustain yourself without outside influence? I think to remove expectation. To congratulate yourself on the small wins and be content with those solo wins, whilst also advocating for yourself when those wins should be acknowledged by others. Be your own biggest supporter. No one will champion you more than you will champion yourself after all. Why pull a muscle clambering to everyone else’s whims and hurdles and boxes we feel we need to fit into, when we should instead be practising our dexterity in patting our own selves on the back? It truly is a work in progress, so better start limbering up! 

(Images via Pinterest)

JEALOUSY OR AMBITION: CAN YOU HAVE ONE WITHOUT THE OTHER

I’ve always said that I am ambitious. Directionless, but ambitious. However, recently I’ve been wondering whether I’ve been confusing jealousy with ambition. The meaning of the words themselves different, but their application becoming interchangeable in my mind.

Having ambition is considered a positive, driven, goal focussed, something you’d mention in an interview, or include in a dating app bio alongside a picture of a sunset and a quote about motivation, because you’re worldly and also so deep. But when you’re just ambitious generally, full stop, it has a tendency to lead one to thoughts of comparison and ultimately, and rather unfortunately, its close ally jealousy. 

I’ll set the scene: I’m ambitious, I’m perky, I try to smile a lot, I’m living my life and like most millennials, though I proclaim that Facebook is so over, I’m not impervious to it’s pull. I see someone on Facebook that I haven’t spoken to in years, as is the case with most ‘friends’ on the friends list, because of course you need to keep tabs on what your peers, even the long forgotten ones, are up to, and more importantly, if they’re doing better than you. Said person has just climbed a mountain, you have never wanted to climb a mountain, but all of a sudden you are incensed, you could climb a mountain, why haven’t you climbed a mountain? I’m annoyed at myself, I should have climbed a mountain. I’m wasting my life. No one else around me is wasting their lives. They’re all too busy climbing mountains. 

Whilst this climbing mountain story was for the purpose of hyperbole, I have had this same reaction to seeing others get married, go travelling, have a baby, get a promotion, open a new business and on my worst days, if they post a picture of a nice meal they’ve had somewhere. I’m jealous of conflicting things, like around the world travels and settling into forever homes, wild nights of partying and early morning trips to the park with children. Some of the things that I get jealous of are more tenable than others, but some, I don’t even want and some I don’t want right now. Yet here I am, looking like Kermit’s cousin I’m so green with jealousy. But why?

Lock down left me feeling far more comfortable staying in than venturing out. I’ve also undertaken the worlds longest renovation which has frayed my nerves and emptied my piggy bank more times than I’d care to remember. As well as me seemingly hurtling through my thirties, making some things seem a lot more imminent than they ever have been, children, marriage, finding my forever career. It’s left me feeling panic stricken, static and stuck. It’s heavy and daunting and it makes me act out in ways that I’m not necessarily proud to admit, namely, I’m jealous, or am I ambitious? 

Definitely I’m ambitious I tell myself, I want to be successful, but successful at what? I’m lost and in trying to find myself, I look to others, and in the tug of all of these things there’s a confusion. Am I doing life right? Could I be doing it better? Should I be doing like everyone else? I want what they have because surely it’s better than what I have. Surely. I must be doing life wrong.

I’ve sat with this and thought, really thought. Am I subconsciously craving some of these things? Am I just a bad person? Am I bored? Am I lost? I guess it’s a mixture of all of the above, though maybe just to be kind to myself, hopefully not so much of the bad person thing. I’m just a human person. So then, is jealousy just a means of our deepest selves letting us know what we really want out of life? Is it just our minds chance to metaphorically try on different versions that our selves could be? 

These are tough things to confront and so I don’t. I look at others and compare and it twists me, or rather as I twist to fit these ideals, I become twisted with jealousy. Maybe I’d be happier if I had done this, or I’d love to have done that. But instead I scroll. I don’t do. I sit and pass judgment, often judgements that I don’t truly believe in. Jealousy colours things in a way that obscures my vision, the opposite of rose tinted glasses, rather the sludge green turns my thoughts putrid. I want to be better and do better in all things, even the things that I don’t want. 

I try to remember that the joys of others do not take joy from me. The successes of others do not make me less successful. The losses of others do not make me a winner, but they also do not make me a loser. My life is my own, to make mistakes and triumphs, to walk down paths that I then circle back around and then forge new paths and get lost and fall over and get back up and everyone else is doing this also. And maybe there are others who look at me with jealousy? 

And they’d be right to be jealous, I have so many good things and good people in my life and of course from the outside, when you’re filling in the bits that you don’t know about a person with your own imaginings, it’s easy to think that someone has it altogether. But I wonder, do we ever have it altogether? 

I am ambitious. I do crave success, but I am yet to determine what success means to me and as I try to figure that out, there will be times when I look to others and comparison overtakes me and jealousy crawls within me. But then I remember; I’m a human person and with that comes imperfection and self doubt and self sabotage and selfishness, but that’s ok. Maybe my new ambition could be allowing myself to just be, through all the messiness of life’s possibilities and the seemingly endless possibilities of others, I ride the jealous-sea (lol), letting it lap at my edges and sometimes letting it wash over me, but never allowing it to overtake me. I’ll just keep bobbing along and just be. And just be.

(None of these pictures are my own; W Magazine & Green finger picture: Zoey Grossman for YSL beauty BTS)

THE ISLE OF THIRTY

I’ve been thirty for over two years now. It’s taken me that long to get my thoughts in order. I’m not sure if I’ve actually managed that yet. Some semblance of order? Maybe? 

My whole life, thirty has been like a little island in the distance, that the tug of life has swayed me towards. It’s a destination that seemed inevitable (untimely death aside) whether I wanted it or not. Whatever was happening in my life, time and its passage was the constant. One day I had my feet buried in the sand, waves lapping at my ankles, slowly the tide rose and I was drawn in. Sometimes I floated, sometimes I floundered, sometimes I swam, sometimes I sank, but all the times I kept going. The sun glistened atop the lapping waves, lulling me in further. The waves crashed threatening to wash me away, but still I carried on. Sometimes by my own volition, sometimes purely by the pull of the sea. 

To say that at times the waves were treacherous would be an overstatement, but there were some waves that crashed about me with such force that I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to regain my stride, that I was instead destined to thrash about, salt stingy my eyes, panicking with every glug of water. And yet it passed. Stillness cloaked me and my surroundings. Stillness overtaking the splashing. Stillness. And in these moments of stillness, I really saw. I saw those swimming alongside me, those swimming ahead of me, those swimming behind me. Some floating on their backs looking up at the passing clouds. Some diving deep out of view. Some lagging, some struggling, some cutting through the water with ease. All the same. All different. 

It’s in these moments when I can look beyond myself, when I can extricate myself from the tangle of my own thoughts and doubts and fears and desires, I see that perhaps there’s no right or wrong way of doing this life thing. We’re just doing. And the doing is done differently. Acknowledging this is powerful, practical, healthy. However, too often I veer into comparison, when self reflection becomes self sabotage. From great points of doubt have stemmed the biggest spirals of my life. When I toss my life jacket over board, when I hold myself under the water, goading myself to see how long I can hold my breath, watching my skin macerate - to what end? Even as I fight myself, I bob along. I make my journey harder, but the journey continues regardless, or perhaps in spite of. 

There are times when life itself seems out to get me. When I just happen to be in the way. When it’ll go through me and I gasp and cry, but still I move, eyes red, tongue thick, arms sore. I move. And as I float and thrash and swim and sink and float and thrash, I’m supposed to do things, meaningful things. Make relationships, romantic and platonic and acquaintances and otherwise, and forge a career and be successful at that career, (bonus points if you actually like said career), and create and raise a family, all whilst waves crash and sway, and all this is to be done whilst being a good person, a kind person, a funny person, a dependable person, a hard working person. A list is formed. I recite it without thinking, a mantra to live by, though it pulls me down rather than buoying me up. Waves crash, but I still have to do and be all of these things. To kick my legs and keep going. And smile. 

And then one day I’m nearing the island of thirty. Suddenly the vastness of the sea and time isn’t so vast. I have a few of the things ticked off the list, but the island is fast approaching and suddenly the momentum has overtaken me, I  can’t slow down. I’m thirty. I’m here. I celebrate but am I happy? My arms can rest, I can tread water for a bit, I look back to the faint outline of the beach that I came from. I reminisce about my journey here. Nostalgia blurring the difficulties so that they’re almost blotted out completely. But the list still remains unchecked. I’ve done some of those things and I am some of those things, but not all of those things. I’m thirty and the tick tick tick of the check list is now the tick tick tick of my body clock. I dunk my head in the cool water, but instead of it refreshing me, the cold takes my breath away.

I squint and pant and regain my composure - outwardly at least. The water stings my eyes or maybe they’re tears, my vision smudged like a water colour that drowned, but I adjust, seeing life out of the abstract shapes; another island, the next milestone - forty. I’ve heard good things about this island. People come into their own when they get there. I bury my hands deep into the sand of the island of thirty, then push off, shooting through the water.

There’s something strangely comforting in knowing that I made it to that vague destination of thirty. The challenges getting here suddenly feel less challenging. I start to think that it wasn’t that bad after all. The sand wasn’t that pebbley sand that sticks sharp to the underside of your feet. The breeze was nice, the sky blue, cloudless. But I leave, because I have to keep going. The tick tick tick continues, echoing in the vastness of the ocean, lost in the space outside of myself, but firm in the space of my mind. 

I glance at the list, the list that follows me, that strangles me, that tangles me, the list given to me with no sender, the list. I read and re-read, focussing on what remains unticked, tick tick tick and then I realise, this isn’t my list, and I swim.

(Pictures via: Pinterest)

I WAS GONE. DID YOU NOTICE?

Long time no ramble. It was an unintentional break. I still had things to say, but…

I literally forgot how to write. But not really literally, although the irony of using a word that’s lost all meaning other than as a mere filler, used with such frequency only secondary to that of ‘like’, for when the brain stalls and you want to sound emphatic and dramatic but words have given up on you so you’re left to drawl, ‘liiteerallly’, is not lost on me.

I grapple with my brain to shake some brilliance out of it. Rusty, shy, words don’t come and when they do they are stuttery like a machine gun without the lasting affect. I swill them around in my mouth, my tongue thick as I try to remember that word, what’s that word? Blank. My mind is blank. My thoughts however are constant. A stream that sometimes is ankle deep and sometimes rises quickly up beyond my knees, threatening to knock me over and carry me away with it. Too quick for me to write it down.

Sometimes I’m lost in thoughts so inconsequential I’m glad that only I can hear them - sometimes Kardashian centred, (rip Kourtney & Khloe as BFF). Sometimes big thoughts way beyond me, like the vastness of space and what’s really out there and the disappointment and relief that I’ll probably never really know. More often than not my brain is busied with worries, these thoughts are the worst. Their persistence tugs at me physically, punching through my day. Mostly they are ‘what ifs’, what if my meeting goes badly tomorrow, what if I don’t know the answer, what if I make a fool out of myself in front of everyone? 

For these types of worries they march on, rhythmic, palpable, echoing in the cavity of my chest. No room for organs in there, just tight with all the unspoken words. My stomach bottomless. My brain cloudy, distracted with the what ifs, but no woulda, coulda, shoulda-ing can give me that relief. Rather the clock ticks on, syncing to the pounding in my chest and head and shaking of my hands. It’s unstoppable. Until it isn’t. And the moment elapses. It’s over. Logic awakens and adrenaline overtakes. I ask myself ‘why was I so worried?’ It wasn’t even that bad. Until the next time when all previous experience is forgotten, replaced instead with the oh too familiar aNxIEtY.

And in between these bouts of anxiety is the after worry, like an after shock. The adrenaline of having overcome whatever situation nearly consumed me, wears off and the confidence that I survived whatever situation I was dreading, dissipates. My thoughts busied with what I think happened vs what actually happened. The edges of reality blurred with my own recollections. 

It’s exhausting. My respite was writing. Focusing the jumble of my mind into words of meaning. My brain on pause, focused totally on whatever stream of fashion consciousness I was wrapped up in. Complete conviction behind the keyboard. Until my escape, escaped me. My thoughts on fashion never stopped, I was just no longer able to make them make sense. Critical thinking about the intersection of fashion and culture isn’t fun when it’s forced. Like a deadline I set myself that I just couldn’t meet. 

Thoughts when not expelled can be all consuming, yet it’s hard to choose an audience. So often you’re met with what is supposed to be a comforting, ‘don’t worry’. Doing little but to test my restraint. To have an audience is to have a mirror up to your thoughts - how do they react? is it in proportion to how you’re reacting? or is it worse? better maybe? 

To see someone react to the very words that you’re struggling to verbalise is to see another person express what has until now been expressionless - the inner workings or failings of one’s mind, exposed. Perhaps that’s why I choose to write. Who even knows if anyone will read this. Does it even matter? My worries matter to me. My ramblings rated only by myself, on a scale created only by myself. So here it is. All out on the page. I guess I can write after all. 

So to summarise, I’m back. Happy New Year! 

THE MOTIVATIONS OF BUYING: IS IT GENUINE LIKE, OR ARE YOU JUST BEING INFLUENCED?

Last year I consciously cut back on my fashion purchases. This was something that I had intended to do for some time, but it took a pandemic for me to really confront my overconsumption. With no where to go and real fear as to the future, clothing ranked as a very low priority. 

Lethargy meant that loungewear prevailed and all energy was funnelled into buoying morale as opposed to bolstering ones sartorial credibility. As a consequence, I became untethered from the touchstones that typically kept me grounded, namely my personal style. 

As lockdowns came into force, were relaxed and then re-enforced and life stopped and stalled and re-started, my fashion groove has not been able to adapt, as I struggled to adapt. The elasticity of self seemingly outstretched and unable to ‘ping’ back. What to wear each day had become perfunctory, with thoughtfulness needed elsewhere, and my clothes coming to reflect this fractious self. I looked down, detached from the clothes about my body. But I reasoned, ‘if you can’t have an existential crisis during a pandemic, then when can you?’ However, this did little to alleviate the discomfort about myself.

In a desperate bid to resurrect my floundering personal style, I became somewhat dependent on social media: the escapability, the availability, the reliability, the distraction. Turning to these familiar strangers to advise me on what I like, because they know what I like, want, need. The manicured reality tempting in all its shininess, ensnaring me in the fickleness of it all and so I found myself literally buying into the very falsity that I claimed to be so aware of. 

Despite the futility of attempting to ‘keep up', evident by the very existence of TikTok ‘cheugy’ (translation: basic/over) videos, trendy became my aspiration. Hauls of new clothes, unboxed en masse, an advert for waste, and an attempt at mass appeal through mass consumption. The proliferation of waste a terrifying sight to behold, especially as a means of entertainment. The blatant over indulgence making it easier to remain detached from this particular medium of social media entrapment. Resistance to Instagram, however, proved much more difficult. One scroll turning into an afternoon lost and a hundred likes of things and stuff, that morph into wants and needs, its subtlety pervasive. 

Why think about what to wear, when one scroll offers thousands of images of inspiration that all promise perfection? New releases flood my feed as brands strive to stay relevant in retaliation to the algorithm that threatens to swallow them hourly. The same item repeated on different influencers, styled slightly differently; same, same but different. A trend borne as instantaneously as an Instagram upload and just as quickly over with a scroll. The newness addictive, the consequence an inability to distinguish between what I actually like and what I’m supposed to like.

This conundrum reached its apex when I became enthralled by a dress that is the definition of tRenDY: the Hockney dress by House of Sunny. The more I saw it, the more I liked it. Wanted it. Needed it. Yet my presumption of its fast fashion origins deterred me from actual committal to basket. That is until a curious click on their website enlightened me to the ethical and sustainable principles central to the House of Sunny brand and business. But whilst this discovery didn’t erase the trendiness of the Hockney dress, it did inspire a reconsideration of my preconceived ideas that this was a ‘wear it and bin it’ trend, that by buying into, I would be condoning in some way. Rather its trendiness was a reaction to it being a really nice dress, because it was a really nice dress and, as in such instances, these things are wont to gain in popularity. 

Yet despite my attempt to shop more responsibly and this dress being produced by ethical and sustainable means, buying based on this alone was still wasteful. The need for there to be a genuine like imperative to ensuring that the piece is worn and used and loved and worn some more. But the pervasive tRenDiNESs was tricky to disentangle myself from. Was my like authentic, or conditioned? - see it, want it, get it. The dress was everywhere, so perhaps bombardment was the cause of my supposed like? Maybe advertising had won, replacing personal style with the promise of something that had previously seemed unattainable. After all Kendall Jenner has worn this dress, so by buying into it, would I, by proximity, be buying into her appeal and attaining some of her credibility? Is that something I even wanted? 

Perhaps not, or perhaps not totally. It would be a lie not to admit that buying something worn by a person whose style you admire, is not tempting. For one, how often can you even afford to buy an item worn by a celebrity (and yes, you can interpret my use of 'celebrity' as loosely as you'd like here)? Yet positioning oneself in amongst celebrities, underscores the bubble that life has forced us into in recent months. These are not people that we 'rub shoulders with', rather they are people whose feeds we scroll through. The lack of interaction with the outside world, has skewed perspectives, allowing reality and the digital space to become conflated. This dress may be everywhere, with the exception of real life. 

With the trendiness of the dress limited to the digital sphere, my peers remain ignorant to its very existence. I therefore wasn't buying it to 'fit in'. And so it got me to thinking; ignoring a trend due to it being 'trendy', is just as disingenuous to ones personal style, as buying into a trend due to it being 'trendy'. I liked the dress and it was trendy, not because it was trendy. The confidence of style that I had been lacking would not be rediscovered by trend chasing or trend aversion, rather it would be reestablished by following my own likes and dislikes. And maybe some will accrue more 'likes' than others, but what will always remain central to my personal style, are my own likes.

(Pictures via: @houseofsunny, @_emwebs, vogue.co.uk & ellakarberg) 

WHAT TO WEAR POST LOCKDOWN, ACCORDING TO THE EUROVISION SONG CONTEST

*The Eurovision - though a year late - coincided with the advent of socialising. With going ‘out out’ now a renewed possibility in the UK, the predicament of having nothing to wear has been reignited. Though this conundrum has long existed, pre-dating covid, the time spent indoors has meant that the prospect of going anywhere has a renewed sense of excitement that was long lost in the time BC (before covid).

It seemed inconceivable that the freedom of going out would seemingly stop. The ability to socialise was always assumed and therefore taken for granted. And yet we found ourselves in the unforeseen circumstances of a pandemic, homebound and cut off from much of society. 

Now, over a year later, we’re on the precipice of a social life and despite what felt like endless time to prepare (though in fairness we were otherwise preoccupied with uh, survival), we find ourselves with nothing. to. wear. And quite serendipitously, the Eurovision Song Contest burst on to our screens.

In recent years the Eurovision has been something of a missed opportunity for me, in that I always seemed to miss it. Memories associated with the Eurovision are thus predominantly those of childhood nights spent up past bedtime, seeing glimpses of (what I thought to be) the whole world all singing and celebrating together - a comforting sentiment in the midst of post-lockdown/pre-normality (whatever that may mean). 

(Iceland)

It was the televisual equivalent of a mento in a glass of Coca Cola; it sounds like a good idea, your friends are all encouraging you, but it fizzes on the brink of entertainment and disaster, before leaving you with a big mess and a sugar hangover. Needless to say, I loved it. 

So when this year, I sat listlessly flicking between channels and happened upon the beginnings of the Eurovision, I saw it as a sign. When could a campy respite be more apt? And if ever there was an antidote to the loungewear that has been endemic of this past year, the Eurovision is it. 

It had everything that I remembered: unexpected stage performances (this year included a dancing thumb), questionable singing (the highest note in the competition’s history was attempted by Israel), sarcastic commentary (though Graham Norton is no Terry Wogan, RIP) and OTT outfits galore. 

(Germany)

Whilst the dancing thumb was confusing and the commentary drew a wry chuckle, I stayed for the clothing. The first lesson I gleaned was to dress like it’s a celebration, because it is! 

So many occasions have had to be cancelled or postponed indefinitely as a consequence of the pandemic. Being newly allowed out for the sole purpose of recreation feels like a small victory and clothing should reflect this. And the Eurovision purported this quite literally, with acts favouring all manner of sparkley, glittery things. 

The show began with Cyprus and an outfit constructed completely from strings of silver crystals and jewels artfully strewn about the body. Albania channelled Beyoncé’s ‘single ladies’ aesthetic in a metallic bodysuit and structured power shoulder. Malta and Moldova both chose silver sequined, tasselled mini dresses - Malta matching with thigh high silver boots, because enough is never enough. 

(Malta)

Israel too followed the theme of sparkles in a white overcoat with  black and silver sequin detailing, which was eventually slinked off to reveal a black barely there dress. Marking the first of many LBDs to enter the stage.

Belgium, Serbia and Azerbaijan all embraced the classic staple, albeit accessorised to create very different looks - Belgium’s moody, rocker aesthetic with eye-grazing bangs and heavy eyeliner; Serbia being described by Norton as “less Destiny’s child, more Destiny’s inappropriate aunt”, (make of that what you will!) and Azerbaijan borrowed Ariana Grande’s ponytail and paired with a jewelled garter, because, to repeat, enough is never enough.

Yet the visual stimulus was not limited to shiny, sparkly things, as the vibrancy of performances was equally matched by the vibrancy of clothing. Lithuania and Sweden embraced monotone, the former in head to toe yellow and the latter in a raspberry red suit (incidentally paired with jewel encrusted gloves because accessories). 

(Lithuania)

Germany was memorable (not only because of the random dancing thumb…) but due to their choice colour blocking, in pink short sleeved jacket and contrasting blue trousers. And Greece just couldn’t decide, so went with everything, in a catsuit that was both sparkley and bright purple and because more is more is more, it had both midriff and chest cut outs. 

Yet, sometimes dazzling metallics and vibrant colours just aren’t enough, and because an entrance can only be made the once, there were some outfits that were all about the spectacle. See Ukraine’s leather peplum, silver body chain and subtle fluro green ‘hair’ jacket; or Norway’s floor length white (faux?) fur overcoat and giant angel wings, which hid an all gold outfit and chest full of gold chains (because of course the underneath needs to befit the outer, much like a Kinder egg). 

(Ukraine)

Russia used theatrics to make statements both sartorially and politically; removing a large, patchwork tiered dress (manoeuvred on wheels), to reveal a red boiler suit in a bid to represent the difference between stereotype and reality. And in a much less nuanced way, Finland expressed - I’m not really sure what - by wrapping their middle fingers in red tape. Perhaps a new season accessory (??) though unsure if it’s the kind of message that one would want to put forth on initial reentrance into society… 

Though some expressed more restraint with their chosen wears, opting for classic outfits in all black, like Spain and the UK (although the UK embellished with a chunky gold chain for some geezer pizazz) and Portugal, who wore a classic black suit, ‘quirked up’ with dickie bow, wing tips and wide brimmed hat. 

(France)

France, whose pared back aesthetic stood out amongst its overdone peers, wore a black corset, with sheer panelling and black cigarette pants. T’was tres chic, though mildly risqué as fervent arm movements made for a passionate performance that was amazing both vocally and amazing that a nip slip did not occur. 

As Flo Rida sung out the show’s ending, it became wildly clear that anything goes. And perhaps that’s the only way to re-enter this newly configured normality. We’ve all been starved of social interaction and despite much excitement for a return to freedom, uncertainty still lingers. But as social limitations lift, so too should self-imposed restrictions, including those related to the sartorial. 

(Bulgaria)

Wear whatever you want, all at once if you should so wish. Or don’t. Minimalism is just as apropos. And if the thought of prying yourself out of your loungewear is just too much, make like Bulgaria and keep them on (!) using accessories to elevate instead of exerting effort. Truly, anything (and sometimes everything) goes! 

Happy safe and well dressed socialising! 

(Photos via: Pinterest, oxfordstudent.com, eurovoix.com, rtve.es, eurovisionworld.com, archyde.com & Eurovision.tv)

*this post is very late (the Eurovision was over a month ago) however, I’m having trouble getting thoughts out of my head in any cohesive way. Hopefully words will flow better soon! 

IS CREATING A SARTORIAL SCHEDULE THE ANSWER TO FASHION FATIGUE?

There are many things that I have fallen in and out of interest in. I played the recorder for a month (to fit in), attempted to watch the Star Wars series once (for a guy) and dyed my hair blue until it washed out (forced by a pushy hairdresser). Yet, I have never lost interest in getting dressed. That is until the pandemic hit. Suddenly my inclination/inspiration to get dressed had vanished and alas so too did my wont to write about getting dressed. Fashion fatigue in a nutshell.

A jaunt around the park brought about an inner calm, but did not stir creativity. A trip to the coffee shop brought about much flustering and the inevitable steamed up glasses, but alas, did not conjure up words. The current not hot, but not cold springtime weather, amounted to many outfit attempts, but ultimately resulted in exasperated silence. 

Of course, I don’t mean to sound self-pitying, whether or not I can muster up enough oomph to purge my brain out into the internet, is not a catastrophe, but it has been isolating. Whilst writing hasn’t always been a comfort (writers block is a stifling frustration), being at odds with my sense of fashion and my wont to get dressed, has left me feeling apart from myself in a way that is both unfamiliar and uncomfortable. 

Over the past year and a bit, I have flitted between various ill-fitting jogging bottoms and on special occasions (namely the weekly trip to the supermarket) I have worn a pair of jeans (the baggiest, and therefore most comfortable, pair I own), but that has been the extent of my *fashion* endeavours. 

What was once an impulse has been replaced by a paralysing lack of motivation to give my appearance any attention more than brushing my teeth and smoothing my flyaways. Something that working from home hasn’t exactly helped with.

WFH is a predominantly stationary way of life, which includes much sitting, periodic coffee breaks that require moving approximately 10 paces to the kettle, and infrequent visits from the postman, which mean walking 20 paces to the front door. When I’m feeling particularly energised, I use the bathroom upstairs and consider this exercise. 

All of this is accomplished with very little effort sartorially, though elasticated waistbands are preferred. And this is how outfits have been constructed. On repeat. For the past year. A uniform of boredom and practicality; devoid of personality. And whilst uniforms make life easier - and who doesn’t need easy right now - ease is often the sabotager of creativity, of excitement, of variety.

Old routines, now removed, no longer offer the same sartorial guidance. When the weather doesn’t matter, dress codes don’t apply and plans have to remain unplanned, what is there to incentivise us to wear anything other than pyjamas? The motivation has to come from within, for no particular reason other than just because. And yet, deciding how we would like to present ourselves to the world is an exciting privilege. One that is all too easy to take for granted, especially in recent months. 

Getting dressed is a means of communicating and interacting with the world. A difficulty when we’ve largely been cut off from that world. With in-person interactions replaced with video conferencing and socialising being substituted for social distancing, not to mention the pandemic necessitated need to WFH, what is considered presentable is now on a much wider and more fluid spectrum. The concept of acceptability has thus become far broader. 

And perhaps therein lies the issue. With boundaries removed, (social, practical etc) dressing is based purely on desire, meaning that the only restrictions are self-imposed. Oh what irony (!) that sartorial freedom would inspire such a sense of fashion fatigue, especially given the amount of times I’ve cursed workwear. Yet boundless options can be overwhelming and got me to thinking whether some parameters are helpful, especially when you are the architect of them. 

From the depths of my brain (which perhaps says more about the inner workings of my mind than anything else) the infamous line from ‘Mean Girls’ - “on Wednesdays we wear pink” - floated to the surface of my consciousness and I wondered if this could offer the repose from my lethargy that I so desired. 

Finally the teen movie of my youth was providing me with more than just one liners to quote at parties, it was offering the inspiration needed to lift me out of my rut. Disclaimer: I don’t plan to employ the same dogmatic approach as that of ‘Mean Girls’ and I have decided that there should be no public shaming, or lunch made to be eaten alone in a bathroom stall, should I stray from my newly instated schedule.

Will there be pink? Probably. Will it be limited to only Wednesdays? No. Will I still indulge in joggers? Definitely. I do not wish to impose unrealistic constraints, especially when much of life has been curtailed (necessarily) due to the pandemic. Rather I will attempt to reintroduce denim, a shoe choice other than UGG boots, maybe some pattern and perhaps even a dedicated day to wearing some of the new items that I’ve stockpiled. 

I intend this schedule to encourage creativity and reintroduce a consciousness back into my routines. Crafting a schedule based on self-indulgence as opposed to self-flagellation. I’ve become lazy, but so what? If ever there was a time to take a repose, I’m sure it would be during a world pandemic. 

But as the world begins to slowly open back up, it seems necessary to shirk off the sameness and embrace change. Dressing for each day, instead of just getting through the week. Making the most of being able to outfit myself based purely on my passions. Leaning in fully to lazy days, days filled with excitement, the Monday slump and the Friday high. 

Embracing the sartorial freedom that comes with seeing no one and going no where, especially as this is likely only temporary. In time we will be amongst the hustle and bustle and whilst this may be some way off and may never be as it was, we will soon be following routines and schedules that are outside of our control (meetings to suit the time of others, appointments agreed despite their inconvenience, plans made to appease others...) and our clothing choices will be based upon these outside factors.

Therefore now is the time to dress based on fancy and whim. Whether that means that my joggers accompany me to my Monday meetings and my Tuesday meetings, or whether I retire them in favour of something a little less comfortable and a lot more interesting, or (what’s more than likely) both! Using this time to swap my routine of boredom for a sartorial schedule that encourages the variety that’s been desperately lacking, is time well spent. And so far, “so fetch!” 

(All images via Pinterest)