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Monday, April 1, 2013

Failed Fashion Victim in the Eighties.

Pinky in the Eighties

Lazing in bed reading the Sunday Mail this morning I came across an article about a lady called Desiree Caira who writes a colourful, photographically illustrated blog at…pullyoursoxup

Wow! Desiree has more style and guts in her little finger than I have in my entire body. I want to be eccentric, eclectic, madcap and fearless too! 

Sadly I know this is unlikely to eventuate unless I drastically alter my ways. Every New Year’s Eve, whilst others resolve to partake of more exercise, drink less alcohol or cut out the ciggies, my resolution is to cease leaving the house looking like a scrubby, informally dressed Bogan on her way to the V8s. 
If I had to trademark my style of fashion it wouldn’t be Boho or Shabby Chic; in fact it couldn’t even be classed as Relaxed Casual. 
Relaxed Redneck might suffice. I like to think that rather than a Country Road label fan, I’m more of a Country Bumpkin aficionado.

Last Saturday when I came home from shopping I complained to Scotto that I’d noticed all the little kids staring at me with googly eyed bewilderment. Why? I wondered. Do I look like a freak or something with my panda, bloodshot eyes and blotchy, make-up-less face (a result from the previous night’s festivities)?

“It might have been what you’re wearing,” commented a thoughtful Scotto gesturing at my Sponge Bob Square Pants t-shirt. 
Sponge Bob resides with his sibling t-shirts in my wardrobe; Felix the Cat, Tom and Jerry and Hello Kitty. Tragic, I know.

Living in a hot, humid climate hasn’t helped the cause. ‘Layering’ is out of the question, nothing (like a stylish scarf) can be worn around the neck and stylish boots must be sacrificed for rubber thongs in this tropical heat.

One of the most reprehensible enablers for my deficiency of style has been the staff uniform shirt. An ugly, disagreeable polyester design which dries in thirty seconds and doesn’t need ironing was too irresistible to snub. 
I bought five. 
A quick trip to Target for five pairs of identical tailored black shorts teamed with my Adidas runners and my work uniform is done for the year. 
I can hear Desiree sobbing into her Gin and Tonic right about now.

It’s not that I don’t want to look nice. I’m not deliberately sabotaging my natural beauty to stave off the attention of lusty suitors or anything. I put it down to innate laziness and a lack of aesthetic imagination. 

Even as a young, single twenty-something there was a dearth of fashionable items in my wardrobe.

“Where are all your clothes?” asked my puzzled Mother one day when she visited me in the big smoke. 

“Oh… in the washing I think.” I lied, knowing full well there were no other clothes as I spent all my spare cash partying it up at the ‘Golden Sheaf’ in Double Bay or the ‘Cock and Bull’ at Bondi.

I recall one day when my fellow Queenslander friend, Bria and I were doing our shopping at an IGA at Vaucluse (a very posh suburb in Sydney). A gaggle of twelve year old Muffys and Tiffanys were in the store buying lollies for the movies. In fascination the mini-fashionistas piercingly inspected our sloppy attire and with disdainful, disapproving expressions on their faces, instantly condemned us as clodhopping hayseeds from the bush. Oh, the shame.

I did try to be trendy in the Eighties but my hair let me down. Fine and straight, no matter how much mousse, teasing or spray I fortified it with, it never made the ‘Big Hair’ stakes. Even the mandatory perm didn't help my desperate efforts to look like Frida from Abba.

I did daringly purchase a Pit Suit in khaki parachute silk with which I adventurously teamed a multitude of leather belts and feather earrings. The photographs still haunt me today. 

I also courageously sported a thin leather tie (androgynous was in baby) every time I went out clubbing thinking I was de rigueur, until some bloke walked up to me and lisped confidentially, 
“You do know ties went out two seasons ago luv?”

All is not lost though it seems. Desiree has inspired me to try again because as she says, anyone can ‘Grow Old Disgracefully’ if they have the stamina. 
I’m burning those work shirts and heading off to buy a sh#tload of leopard skin and lace.