THE LOST ART OF GETTING DRESSED
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I want to talk about style. I’ve wanted to talk about style a handful of times here this year. As for the rest of the time, I felt like I couldn’t care less about what I was wearing - as long as I felt comfortable and was able to function as a human being.
On a good day, the spark ignited by a solid outfit choice might inspire me enough to draft something for the blog, then would come the pause - a moment of hesitation and the pressing need to sense the mood…to try and figure out the vibe in the virtual room. Nine times out of ten I’d delete the draft, cloaked in the fear that any sartorial musings I might proffer would be considered of little value and moreover, irrelevant in the current climate.
Amid the inward-facing bubble of lockdowns one and two and subsequent self-imposed guidelines as to what constitutes a safe place to be in, there were times when I found myself sorely missing the occasion of having somewhere to go. For in the pre-pandemic world, it was only when I had somewhere to go that I would put significant thought into what came out of the wardrobe and went onto my body. When I say somewhere to go, that generally consisted of the supermarket, a coffee meeting, a trip to the shops, a visit to the hairdresser, optician or dentist or a long overdue lunch date with friends. As each of those things was rapidly crossed off the 2020 list, the opportunities for “getting dressed” began to diminish at a rapid rate. I’m not sure trips to the supermarket amid Covid times warrant anything close to making an effort – we’re all too busy peering over our masks at the person nearby and calculating whether or not they’re two metres away.
My friend Lou has a preoccupation with style on a level not dissimilar to mine and this week she wrote about it on her Patreon page. As is often the case it seemed like she’d been right there inside my head with me - the two of us exploring similar views amid this strangest of years. Reading her words was the push I needed to talk about my off-kilter relationship with style in 2020.
In a year dominated by a global pandemic, systemic racism and environmental concerns, what to wear has generally been the furthest thing from my mind. So says the ex-style blogger who in another life, poured over magazines, blogs and Instagram feeds and lived for a bi-annual shopping trip to London to top up on essentials from a handful of beloved brands.
For many years my own style persona was bordering on the verge of schizophrenic. I would quote from the classic investment piece and building block basics rulebooks and then catch myself making the kind of impulse purchases that can only be attributed to too much digital influence. I would look at what my peers and those who inhabited the upper echelons of the style blogging elite were wearing and find myself adding to bag at an alarming rate. It was all a bit frenetic to say the least, and eventually led to several instances of mass decluttering that were more about my state of mind than what I wanted to wear. I wrote in some detail about my final implosion here.
Thankfully, with the advent of midlife proper, I’ve settled wholeheartedly into the minimal calm of Menocore style and, not to sound too much like I’m confessing to the hot priest in Fleabag (if only), it’s been at least two years since my last impulse purchase.
This year I’ve read a plethora of articles about work from home attire and like my own feelings on the subject, the stance changes often. If you come across such Instagram or blog posts proffering tips on lockdown looks or what constitutes a pleasing work from home wardrobe, my advice would be to take it with a hefty pinch of salt. It all changes according to who wrote it, whether the author is having a good or a bad day, what the weather is doing and what’s making news headlines on the day. The one thing they all perhaps agree on is that the classic Zoom meeting attire - presentable up top, PJs below – won’t be going away anytime soon.
Truth is, it seems we all veer from “I’m still in control - I will continue to dress in the manner I always did” to “Fuck it… I only have the mental capacity for yoga pants and a sweatshirt today”. Side note: the latter in my case does not mean I’m doing anything remotely yogic but is more likely to be based on how many times P has dropped by the village bakery for a fresh loaf this week.
Dressing in the warmer months is without doubt far easier than the sartorial gymnastics required by winter. Breezing about in a cotton dress and padding around in denim cut-offs and a linen shirt are the easiest interpretations of a summer style cliche.
Winter is a whole other beast and generally dictated by all manner of practical considerations. For some, it’ll be rainy school runs, for me its all-weather dog walks and prolific amounts of mud. Dressing for the life I lead often conflicts with one of my most strongly held beliefs - dressing for how I’d like to feel today. I admit to that pissing me off somewhat because some days, whilst I’m definitely feeling the oversized vibe at Raey and a woven leather ARKET bag, I have neither the lifestyle nor budget to match. However, what I lack in the chic city woman stakes, I more than make up for it in access to coastline… and mud.
Back in the real world, pre–March 2020 I would often put on a “This is how I’m dealing with the world today” outfit, telling myself that the feel-good buzz was worth changing for the dog walk and then changing back again after. Post March 2020, I had neither the energy or mental capacity for all that shenanigans. Who would?
Don’t get me wrong, there have been days when buoyed up by moments of hope and positivity, I’ve rediscovered the joy in clothes again. Swooshing around in a voluminous dress and chunky slides or tucking some cashmere joggers just so into a pair of stomping boots and working the Dressed for Dalston, Lives in Dorset vibe never fails to lift my mood. Having put on something that increases the “I’m owning today” factor, I’ll feel an overwhelming resurgence of love for style and invariably find myself re-editing the contents of my wardrobe, trying on different outfit combinations and browsing online for inspiration.
But on the whole, this shittiest of shitty years has dumbed down, sat on and quite frankly, flattened my fascination with style somewhat. To talk or think about clothes amid an ongoing climate of fear, loss, economic uncertainty and sorrow somehow felt misplaced and most days, just plain wrong. As the months progressed, I found myself unsubscribing from favourite brand emails and scrolling past style influencers I would previously have stalked avidly, without so much as a screen tap or a heart eye emoji.
For most of this year, I was just a girl standing in front of a wardrobe, begging it to offer up something (anything), that might give me back that elusive sass factor. A girl who, try as she might, couldn’t drown out the siren comfort call of those yoga pants in the bottom drawer. I’m wearing them today as I type. Stop buying the bread P!
But now, as hope hovers tantalisingly on the horizon, I’ll tell you what I’m looking forward to. In spring, when things feel much improved and resemble something closer to the world we once inhabited, I’m looking forward to arranging dates with friends and dressing accordingly. I’ll be able to suggest that P and I nip to the village pub for a drink or that the three of us go out for a family dinner.
I’ll dispense with the mud-proof garb and opt for something a little more inspiring - a pair of relaxed trousers, the cosy folds of a cashmere sweater and some favourite chunky loafers sounds perfect about now. A trench coat and a crossbody bag… doesn’t that sound like some kind of magical combination from the far off days of socialising and running errands without so much as a sideways glance? I don’t know about you but I miss thinking of bags as mere accessories as opposed to a vessel for face masks and hand sanitiser… and something that, if placed on the wrong surface, could become a hotbed of germs and have to subsequently be burnt. Side note #2: I didn’t actually burn any bags but my obsessive germaphobe behaviour has brought me pretty darn close this year.
I’m looking forward to pushing up the sleeves of a boyfriend blazer, stacking multiple rings on my fingers, sporting dark nail polish, messing around with a shirt tuck, cuffing the hem of a pair of wide-leg jeans and applying red lipstick without having to wipe it off again before it gets smudged around the inside of a mask.
Tiny, insignificant details that, in the grand scheme of things, don’t carry any weight of importance or priority on the face of it. But to be able to give them headspace again will mean that the return to the life we had before is actually happening. We will have made it through.
Except this time, forever changed, we’ll welcome it back with open arms and the promise to never again take it for granted.
As for the coming weeks and Christmas in particular, quiet times at home - just us and the dog - demands only muted comfort. So for the first time in aeons, I bought a gift to me with love from me - a recycled cashmere sweater from ARKET. I needed an oversized sweater in black and past experience tells me anything remotely itchy won’t cut it.
The act of buying it felt unfamiliar and indulgent, but the purchase was made with intention and represents a hopeful state of mind. Because it reminded me of that sometimes-joyous act that I’ve missed so very much… that lost art of getting dressed.
