Clothes Doth Maketh the Woman

So how was your Easter break?  Mine was a hectic two-week whirlwind of impromptu planning (my self-employed husband was working for most of the holidays and forced to snatch time off here and there), chocolate consumption and praying that Whitsun brings with it better weather and better getaway prospects. 

I sat around for much of the Easter break, variously at the park with friends (in between rain showers), playing Mario Kart on the Wii (during heavy downpours) or drinking litres of coffee at a local indoor play centre (when all hope of a sunny dry spell was gone).

This Easter, as the rain hammered down, I frequently sought solace in stolen moments enjoying stolen pieces of my son’s Easter Eggs and had time to reflect on the sameness of my day-to-day outfits.  Add to this general sense of dissatisfaction the fact that I was unable to get a much-needed appointment with my hairdresser to get my roots done and you have a woman on the edge.

Post Easter break, which, let’s face it if you didn’t manage to go away, was literally a wash out, my mind has been pre-occupied with updating my wardrobe.  I have become a “safe” dresser – a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl, but secretly have become obsessed with acquiring a pair of Aztec-patterned leggings, the perfect ankle boot and a really wearable day dress.  I have decided that once in possession of these items (and having had my roots done), I will feel more like me and revert to a fully functioning writer, be inspired to complete my book and be a happy and contented wife and mother once again.

Without straying into Samantha Brick territory, I used to be comfortable in my own skin and adept at selecting items of clothing I felt confident wearing, with a nod-to-but-not-dictated-by current fashion trends, all the time conveying my own sense of individuality.   I remain a size 8-10 and yet, those days seem to have slipped by the wayside.  Life gets in the way.  Age gets in the way.  And therein lies the key to all this.  Age.  Women over the age of 35 are expected to adhere to fashion rules.  We should not wear skirts above the knee or skinny jeans for example.

I have conducted some preliminary research into this attitude on Twitter.  Katy Pegg (sister of Simon) recently tweeted that she was thrilled with her new Aztec print leggings.  I seized the moment and confided that I’m not sure whether there’s an age limit for patterned leggings.  Katy replied that she is 32.  I’m 38.  Does that make a difference?

Given time, I could ramble on all day about my inner struggle with this issue.  However, it seems that all it took was a word from the original fashion darling herself, Twiggy.  Flicking through a magazine in a waiting room earlier this week, I read an interview with Twiggy in which she said that she was sick to the back teeth of being told what mature women should and shouldn’t wear and that she was jolly well going to please herself, trust her instincts and wear what the hell she likes!  Of course, I am paraphrasing wildly here, but you get the gist. 

The result of this pep read?  I went shopping and am now the proud owner of a bargain pair of ankle boots (reduced from £65.00 to £10.00), a fabulous and wearable day dress and, as my Twitter followers will testify, a pair of Aztec print leggings, which, combined with a long length grey fine knit, biker boots and fresh highlights, have inspired me to write this blog.  See?  It worked.

Now if I could just find the perfect outfit that says “Hot New Literary Talent” then my work is done.

Women behaving badly

Warning, one of my favourite poems by Jenny Joseph, begins:

“When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.”

The predicted behaviour goes steadily downhill from here, but that is why I love it.  Who doesn’t find the idea of an old lady spitting in the street or stealing flowers from other people’s gardens amusing?

Admittedly, I don’t know many old ladies who behave like this, although my great-grandmother once consumed two thirds of a bunch of grapes for a solid twenty minutes before machine gunning the seeds around the living room of her residential home, much to the shock of the Matron and other residents (and to the stifled giggles of my eleven-year-old self).  But she was not well at the time and seedless grapes were scarce. 

Most old ladies I know are gentle, loving and respectful.  It’s lamentable, but they are largely fearful of today’s youth, not at pains to emulate the notorious members of the younger ASBO generation.

Having said that, there are a few women shaping up to become senior citizens of that ilk.  Denise Welch for one.  Her unapologetic flashing tendencies in this year’s Celebrity Big Brother show no sign of abating and she is coming under fire, interestingly not solely for the flesh baring, but for daring to do so at the age of 53!

So, is there a cut off point for risqué behaviour and does it only apply to women?  The mantra for women of a certain age seems to be less, less, less, not more, more, more.  Less make up, less jewellery, less wine, less cake, less….fun!  There’s nothing new in saying that our behaviour seems to come under greater scrutiny than our male counterparts.  As I’m writing, I can think of a number of fashion rules, which only serve to curtail women’s freedom of expression.  I know for a fact that women are expected to forego mini skirts after the age of 35, but I couldn’t tell you who made that rule.  Isn’t that strange?   There are others.  Only the other day, I was watching the new M.I.A. video for “Bad Girlz” and coveting her mint coloured leopard print skinny jeans, all the time reprimanding myself for thinking I could wear those at my age!  For the record, I am not yet 40.

I know, I know, we all like to look and feel good.  But we are also expected to modify our behaviour and maybe even stop doing the things we enjoy at a certain point in our lives.  I could take a feminist stance and argue that there are and always have been many men out there actively behaving badly and being revered for it – Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty, Colin Farrell and Russell Brand to name but a few.  However, it strikes me that there is a key to behaving badly and getting away with it. 

Provided the perpetrator has intelligence, creativity, a sense of humour, an appreciation of irony and a rapier wit, they can pretty much do anything and still command respect.  Not fair perhaps, but true all the same.  Problems start to arise when an established pattern of behaviour quickly becomes a permanent fixture, with nothing else on the table so to speak.  Boob flashing, if you’re so inclined, is all well and good, but there are only so many times viewers, or anyone for that matter, will be shocked by this or moved to react. 

Dorothy Parker, notorious writer, poet and critic, is a good example of a woman we allowed to behave badly.  Her private life was complicated at best and certainly blighted by alcohol addiction.  Yet, when you realise that she was responsible for the infamous line: “One more drink and I’d have been under the host!” all is forgiven.  Likewise, notorious bad girl Tallulah Bankhead, acknowledging her own chequered history, stated defiantly:  “If I had my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner!”

Some would say that Madonna has done more than her fair share of flesh exposure in her time.  However, she has also covered up, written books, stage-managed and controlled her entire career and most recently directed a film.  Only last weekend, she has triumphed with a spectacular and athletic half time performance at the Superbowl.  Incidentally, she teamed up with the aforementioned M.I.A. for a live rendition of their musical collaboration “Gimme All your Luvin’.” However, this has not prevented Madonna’s detractors from questioning whether, at the same age as Denise Welch, she should be on stage performing at all! 

But fear not, bad girls.  Madonna is shrewd.  She has followed one of the golden rules of senior and guilt free bad behaviour.  She surrounds herself with people younger than herself, thereby keeping her finger firmly on the pulse whilst providing her fellow artists and collaborators with a platform for unrestricted expression.  One of the headline-grabbing stories resulting from Madonna’s Superbowl appearance was the “obscene” gesture courtesy, not of Madonna, but her younger protagonist, M.I.A.  No longer at the eye of the storm in press terms, Madonna is now merely guilty by association.

Madonna has worked hard to achieve longevity, which in turn has earned her the right to explain away any bad behaviour as “art.”  Poor Denise just likes, in her own words, “..getting them out for the lads.”

So there has to be another talent in evidence and preferably some younger, equally talented and naughty friends to help take the heat off.  Provided you have other strings to your bow, you have full permission to start wearing purple, flash and spit to your heart’s content.  Go on ladies, knock yourself out!

What's your swimming style?

I am back on course with my exercise regime.  After a month of hedonistic indulgences, (there are only so many times you can say "yes" to double cream, before the thighs take on the appearance of jellyfish moving beneath the surface of the skin)  I am determined to maintain my weekly swim and regular walking.  I have also publicly pledged to join a Pilate's class in September, which means I now have to.  I've said it out loud.

However, this is by no means an attempt to attain "Yummy Mummy" status.  I am as guilty as anyone, for making fun of the "Yummy Mummy" phenomenon.  I just don't possess or understand their motivation in dressing up simply to drop their children off at school.  And before you ask, yes I have taken into account working mothers who have to look smart.  The Yummy Mummy is a different breed altogether.  We are talking stripper heels, faux fur, full make-up, coiffed hair.  There are also the "alternatives" who dress as though they are going to a rock concert, but in their own way have tried just as hard.  They have cascading, tousled curls, wear leather, ripped jeans, expensive, heavy duty leather boots, Kate Moss kohl lined eyes and armfuls of friendship bracelets.  I don't have the time, uninterrupted cash flow or inclination to compete in that arena for mundane activities.

If I'm presented with a choice between looking fabulous at dawn break, complete with glowing skin, silky hair (hair that moves in slow motion, without falling out of place) and toned glutes clad in leg-enhancing, stylist-selected trousers, as opposed to three presses of my "Snooze" button first thing in the morning, then I will opt for the latter every time.  My current short-cut secret weapons are sunglasses and maxi skirts.  They have served me well during what will no doubt turn out to be our last few days of summer, disguising the dark circles below my eyes and even darker eleven o'clock shadow enveloping my legs.

This does not mean that I do not secretly aspire to be considered "Yummy" (please someone, coin a different phrase!)  It's just that my primary focus is on achieving the perfect balance of curves and toning in order to look great in whatever I pick up off the floor and throw on in a morning (maybe the new phrase should be “Slutty Mummy”).  I would like to have that natural sense of style which sometimes evades me now I am thirty-something.  Whereas a few short years ago, I was wholly confident in my outfit choices, these days, I am plagued by doubt.  My husband's standard patter ("It's fine") doesn't really cut it any more and my worst fear is being perceived as "mutton dressed as lamb".  I have also recently put on a few pounds and whilst I am quite happy with this, as certain items from my wardrobe now fit rather than hang, nonetheless, I want to ensure that the extra pounds are sculpted to my body like perfect consistency clay, rather than resembling mashed potato in a stocking.

Today, the weather was perfectly conducive to a swim - the sort of sultry weather that makes you want to disrobe and plunge into the cold depths at the foot of a waterfall or take a moonlit skinny dip in the surf with a group of golden gods.  For the sake of convenience, I opted for the local public swimming pool's adults only session.  This is local council speak for pensioners combining their weekly gossip with exercise (if wading like baby elephants for half a length before returning to the comfort of the side counts for exercise).

Taking advantage of the weather and wearing my latest maxi dress; firmly rooted in the seventies with its halterneck top and yellow and brown abstract floral pattern, I quickly realised that my grasp of seventies Californian soft-rock chic did not apply to my swimming attire.  The material of my swimming costume is slowly perishing from the frequent chlorine onslaughts and has shiny, thread-thinning patches in several places (I pray to God these are confined to the front!)  I had thought that the one piece costume was a safer option after last week's Tankini outing, which nearly resulted in me swimming out of my swim shorts when attempting to elegantly propel myself through the water from the side.   How wrong I was!

The second failing in my swim style is my choice of goggles.  I have yet to find the perfect pair.  Admittedly it is near impossible to look stylish in a pair of goggles, but my growing collection fall into two categories; the ones that work but leave circular imprints around my eyes for the next twelve hours and today's selection; the ones that work for approximately thirty seconds before gradually filling up with water from the inside.

For once, my bikini line was firmly in check, although I can't vouch for the quality of my fake tan.  As for my colour enhanced locks, I can't bear to wear a swimming cap.  Contrary to all testamentary evidence in support of swimming caps, they do not work for me.  There is always a bulge at the back which allows for seepage.  Also they are bloody uncomfortable and promote a shrunken head appearance.  Therefore, I let my hair flow freely, which it does, usually obscuring my face when I come up for air.  This, combined with my water filled swimming goggles, today caused me to panic momentarily because I couldn't see where I was going and I took in water, which induced a coughing fit.

The final humiliation for me today, was again hair-related.  I had forgotten my comb in my haste to get to the pool on time.  I was also unable to find any cash for the hairdryer (which in any event would struggle to blow the head off a dandelion clock) and so I was forced to wear my hair in a towel turban.  Unfortunately for me, this was not a towel colour co-ordinated to compliment my outfit, secured with a brooch, but the only clean towel I could lay my hands on, namely my son's Micky Mouse towel.

So, that was my morning swim.  The exercise has released the happy hormones.  However, in terms of style, particularly swim style, I remain very much a work in progress.