A feeling that has been building for a few months, now. There are a couple of reasons for this: first, the not-so-new job environment is smarter than publishing ever was, so I can’t fall back on jeans; secondly, a lot of my clothes are still those that I bought in the US. They’re starting to look tired, and I can’t find any replacements.
And the reason I can’t find replacements is because I don’t know where to shop any more. And worse, I can’t be arsed. Y’all know I love shopping, but I mostly don’t like what’s in fashion at the moment, and if I did it’s either work inappropriate, age inappropriate, or both. The UK high street is become an increasingly depressing place: clothing from low end stores that skimp on fabric doesn’t fit me because I am not 15. In the middle territory, Jigsaw, one of my old standbys, is heading into J-Crew land, and is really starting to take the piss with the pricing.
I’m also suffering mild identity confusion, which I suspect is in part due to turning 43 shortly. While the numbers per se don’t bother me, I am at that point where, however gratifying it might be that you can still physically fit into an item of clothing, that doesn’t mean you should wear it. ‘Mutton dressed as lamb’, as my gran would have said. But where are the great clothes for women my age hiding? They all seem to be crappy clothes for hiding women my age.
Ideally, I’d outsource the whole problem to my personal dresser and an army of bespoke tailors, but I’ve looked and looked and I can’t find that inherited fortune anywhere. So, I guess I’m going to have to tackle it myself. Le sigh.