Ready, boots?

I have a complicated relationship with clothes.

I don’t seem to be able to build a wardrobe in a sensible, grownup way and I don’t have a nice, colour co-ordinated range of outfits for different seasons in good fabrics that are cut well by esteemed designers. Despite my advanced age I am yet to grow out of my signature style, settled upon in adolescence of a combination of pyjamas, leggings, demure 1950’s housewife dresses and sparkly/furry outfits more suited to stage performances. I have a great fondness for ridiculous high heeled shoes although sadly in Stepford, there are precious few places to wear them, this being the land of Uggs and flip-flops. Still, I continue to wear my odd get-ups despite the funny looks I get from the other mothers at the school gates.

I did try, for a while, to tone down the clothes. Mostly when I felt rather flat and fat myself. I wore pretty things from Anthropologie. I tried carrying a handbag and putting things in it (instead of chaotically stuffing everything into a tiny Coach purse on a strap around my wrist). I wore ‘natural’ makeup. I foolishly allowed a hairdresser to colour my hair light brown instead of the blonde it has been for decades.

Husband loved it.

I wanted to kill myself.

Who was this frumpy imposter?

Last year I decided that it was just no good. I was clearly NEVER going to grow up and age gracefully.
It was going to be much easier on everyone (well, maybe just me actually) if I went back and embraced my inner teenager and bought stupid, disposable fashion at shops that are not meant for ladies such as myself.  This worked out rather well, not least because there are a number of shops like this in Stepford given the high student population. I might look a trifle out of place riffling through the racks, but hey, I can rock those 80’s styles with the best of them. After all, I’ve had lots of practice having done it in the real life ’80’s. If only I had kept some of those gems, I wouldn’t have to buy them again.

My favourite shop on our rather paltry High St. is Forever 21. If my friend Liberty London Girl is reading this she will be fainting around now from the horror of associated acrylic static shock and my general fashion low-rentness, but listen. It’s genius branding.

For me, it’s not merely the clothes. It’s the whole shopping experience that gives me a sense of nostalgic glee, a sort of recherche de temps perdu (sorry, Proust).
There’s something about that place that makes me feel I’ve gone down the escalator into the Oxford Circus TopShop circa 1985 with a fistful of cash that my granny has hoarded and handed over. I’m dizzy, delirious with sartorial desire, surrounded by baubles and beads, ruffles and ruches, glitter and glitz. The music is deafening, I can feel the bass through the soles of my shoes and the synthesisers make my ears fizz.  This helps drown out any voices that might tell me that the ‘tops’ that I’m trying on are actually dresses for most of the clientele, that Five is closer to the target demographic than I am.  I just sing along, nod my head, scoop up armfulls of garments and enjoy myself.

Of course I’m not shopping alone these days. Often I’m accompanied by Two and Five who throw themselves into the store with wild abandon, starting to dance as soon as we enter the giant wooden doors, boogying on podiums with mannequins, placing hats on their heads and trying to moonwalk, much to the amusement of other shoppers. Five tires of this fairly quickly and starts her campaign to be bought something – usually “nake-up” or “diamonds” but Two rarely stops his marathon and will swiftly move into the window display, shaking his groove thing and blowing kisses to pretty young women who pass by.
This boy will be trouble, I tell you.

I remember my mother, at about the age I am now, refusing to wear the sensible clothes I picked out for her at department stores. I was embarrassed at her slightly hippyish attire and I would say, frustratedly, that she looked like

“Mutton dressed as lamb”

She took that with quite good humour and riposted

“But darling, that’s my style!”

I think I might be treading in her footsteps.

And you know what? It feels good.

On Sunday, while Five and Husband were at the local swimming pool, Two and I slipped down to Forever 21.  He did a bit of window vogueing and I bought those silver boots for the princely sum of $13.99 (if you can’t see them, click here or on the title of this post)

Husband was a little ambivalent, but I posted the photo on my facebook page and the response was overwhelmingly positive. Nearly every woman I know loves and wants a pair of Mid-life crisis boots herself (possibly some of the men do, too, unless I got that wrong and they just want to see us wearing them).

So, ladies, I suggest you run, don’t walk, to your nearest teen-wear emporium and buy yourself a pair of really silly shoes, and perhaps even another garment or two that you may or may not restrict to the confines of your bedroom *cough*.

And if my feeble words alone cannot persuade you, you cannot ignore NANCY!

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