WHAT LIES BENEATH
In recent months, during quieter moments, I’ve given an inordinate amount of headspace to how I observe, consume and participate in an ongoing pursuit of style. Not having had much time of late to sit down and write here, when I finally did, the first incarnation of this post took on a frantic effort of it’s own to get words out of my head and onto the page. What was meant to be thoughtful commentary on a preoccupation with style and my own wardrobe evolution, quickly turned into a heap of ranty observations on the phenomenon of outfit sharing on Instagram. Therapeutic? Yes. Good reading? Not so much. After hours at the desk and one almighty writing headache later, in a fit of momentary wisdom I decided to leave it and revisit the beast on another day. I’m glad I did… there’s a lot to be said for never hitting publish on the first go round.
Later I reread my own diatribe and began to question the vehemence of the sentiments I’d plucked from my brain and spewed onto the page, in what could be mistaken for (or possibly was), some kind of hormonal frenzy. The majority of it was clearly centred around my on/off misgivings around Instagram - the platform that’s birthed a plethora of previously non-existent, online industries and given a whole other meaning to the word influence. Not least because at one point, I suppose I was an influencer - albeit the lesser known breed - the micro-influencer. Which, completely off topic, always makes me think of micro pigs, scooters, herbs etc.
Penchants for scaled down versions of things aside, I’ve come to realise that my views on Instagram are never permanently one thing or the other - some days we exist in perfect harmony and on others, I utterly despise it. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.
With regard to my own foray into the business of “influencing”, I never really warmed to that particular job title for many reasons. Reasons that I feel could quite easily become a “Confessions of…” type memoir if I ever gave it enough air time. I originated from the old-fashioned blogger stable and had trotted around there quite happily, long before the dawn of bios, squares, Stories and Reels. Having reached midlife and decided that grid life was a rollercoaster that left me somewhat nauseous, I decided to get off and head back to the teacups. A more sedate online vocational ride that now takes the form of writing here, creating content for others and occasional bouts of dicking about on Instagram when the mood suits. No pressure to perform on a platform controlled by the behemoths of Silicon Valley. I prefer it that way.
My own curated Instagram feed pretty much consists of a tried and tested formula: minimalist Scandi cool style ‘grammers (most of whom have disappointingly given up long form blogging), every genre of minimal interiors (pre-Instagram I never knew there was more than one), a little food here and there, zero mainstream media, a sprinkling of positive news feeds, lots of coastal accounts, some nature photography and a few thoughtful folk whom I consider to be incredible wordsmiths. Oh and Diane Keaton… who I pretend is my friend.
Sometimes I’ll indulge in a leisurely scroll and all my inspiration-hungry appetites are satiated beneath one gently wafting cloud of greige serenity. A peaceful image of a beach, a darkened coffee and notebook shot, an outfit that speaks my language (you speak COS and ARKET right?), an artfully styled living room corner that I could see myself happily curling up with a book in. In it all goes as I double tap, comment on and save the visuals that I covet to help to feed a creative soul. All is peaceful, muted and calm.
On other days it’s a different story. I find myself having the shit continually irritated out of me by what feels like storefront projections of lives that seem way too cool for school. And in a few cases, not much appears to be shared other than a seemingly endless roll of gifted products, press trips and paid for posts. These are the times when, feeling oversold and underwhelmed, I find myself stuffing my phone in a drawer - out of sight is out of mind. Some days, visuals, curation and an endless parade of gifts are not enough - I want more dished up alongside it.
I love it when people reveal something of themselves - something I can identify with. It doesn't have to be earth-shatteringly personal - just something that takes us to common ground and makes me nod vigorously in “Me too!” agreement. So we can feel like we co-exist in the same messy solidarity of womanhood rather than nine achingly hip squares accompanied only by the latest contrived ‘gram speak and the odd emoji here and there. Sure… go ahead and post your perfect image but use your words to let me in a little too - I want to know what lies beneath.
And then I realise that on these “angry” days, it’s not them, it's me. What I see is only my perception of what I’m being shown. There’s always a story behind every constructed image but we all retain the right to share as little or as much as we like. We only see what we’re allowed to see. Perhaps the curation is a form of concealment or maybe sharing only the uber stylish elements provides a much needed form of escapism. In a place where assumption is all too easy, I’d do well to remember we don’t really know one another at all.
So on the days I find myself becoming inexplicably stabby over another editorial style outfit shot that looks like a hasty on-the-go snap, but in reality, takes twenty six attempts at stepping off a kerb just so, I’ve learned to take one giant step away. Simple as that. I know I can return on a better day. A day after I’ve had some time to fill up on a good book, read an insightful blog post or receive the latest newsletter from someone whose words in my inbox make me feel like they're right there in the room with me. That's when I can come back - when all I’m seeking is merely a few ideas to help with expressing my love for a wide leg jeans and oversized blazer combination. I am owed nothing more than style inspiration.
Here we are, two pages in and at serious risk of yet another spectacular digression, I’m finally heading towards my original reason for writing and the thing that set me off on a train of thought about my own sartorial leanings.
It was a compliment I received from a long standing blogging friend in the course of a DM chat. After I’d posted an outfit photo, she said that she loved my style and that it communicated to her I had a sense of who I was. Incidentally, we’ve never met in real life but I hope that one day we will. And the photo that elicited such kind words was not a pre-planned, carefully styled grid shot but instead a morning snap on Stories. Scraped back hair in need of a wash, an oversized, grey cashmere sweater, wide leg jeans complete with creases down the front, thick winter socks and cosy Birkenstocks. Me.
I liked that this mundane outfit, the wearer looking like she’d truly reached that point in the year (and what a year), where peak weariness had been achieved, could evoke such a response. Especially when, rewind to five years previous and I wouldn’t have dared let such a photo see the light of day. Call it what you like - evolution, the midlife thirst for reality or a long overdue response to the concept of Instagram perfection… either way, sharing it felt right. If the compliment bearer is reading, she knows who she is but she doesn’t know how much what she said meant to me… or how it got my brain cogs turning.
How do you take that sense of who you are and distil it down into the clothes you reach for in the morning? I ask because I wasn’t born with that skill - some definitely are and it makes me inordinately happy when I spot such a being. In fact, I’m probably guilty of staring at stylishly dressed women way more than would be considered acceptable. And sometimes running after them to ask where they acquired what they’re wearing. If that’s ever been you, I apologise - I can’t help myself.
I think the style juncture I’ve reached now is multi-faceted - decades of experimentation, that era spent as a style blogger doing things I never thought I’d do, and finally settling on a point in life when for a number of reasons, I’m not afraid to try a little style bravery. There is also the old adage of being old enough not to care what people think and to a degree, I find that to be true.
The concept of which leads to a phrase that’s been running around my head because I’ve heard it on repeat lately. It’s about women becoming “invisible” - usually in the context of midlife but specifically, during and post menopause. I can’t say I’m keen on the word itself due to the very thing it implies about ageing and how we might have previously measured our self worth by the intensity of the male gaze. Nonetheless the notion intrigues me.
Is it that entering this “invisible stage” becomes the catalyst that enables and inspires some women to make braver style choices? It’s the style of these women that I now found myself drawn to - the ones who stand out in their unique sartorial pairings, unexpected choices or just in their plain outright refusal to conform to any kind of clothing related rules. Many of them will have been dressing this way all along but perhaps only now am I finding them (generally on Instagram), and sitting up and taking notice.
Going widely unseen might be something to bemoan. I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt the momentary zing that accompanies the split second, head turn of a passing stranger. But there are reasons to welcome inconspicuousness with open arms too - one being the ability to walk down the street wearing what the hell I like. I don’t really care to have my choice of wide leg trousers and stompy boots commented upon by White Van Man parked outside the village shops. Who does? I mean, if you’re a woman, when was the last time you leaned out the window of your car and said to a passing male “Oy Mate… nice boots, shame about the arse crack hanging out your jeans though!”
I’m aware that my particular penchant for extreme dresses of voluminous width, a dramatic sleeve here, an oversized coat there, are far from the mainstay trappings of how I used to dress my female form. Gone are the high heels, anything remotely figure hugging… and don’t get me started on colours that could be considered bright or cheery. My own brand of minimalist greige menocore is probably considered to be, by and large, somewhat man-repelling… but look closely and you’ll see zero fucks given from my perspective.
I’m sure some might say that I’m living that cliche - “dressing for my age” - which is ironic as that’s the last thing I’d aim for. But the elements of the midlife woman are all there - work at home, a mother to a busy teen, a preference for countryside and coast to any big city and I’m a dress size bigger than I used to be. I also walk the dog (and sometimes just myself when my mental health demands it), in all weathers and so my wardrobe has practical elements required of it every day. The clothes fit the woman in the life she leads.
In amongst that and the bigger challenges that come with midlife, I find myself constantly reaching inward for my sense of self and how I dress now seems to provide it in spades. Over the years I’ve become many things and taken on a number of different roles but above all, I’m still me. I’m glad that the style I gravitate towards brings me back to myself.
And did I mention that it comes with a glorious helping of comfort too? The thing with all the menocore is that no matter what size you might be, the following seems to come as standard: seamless underwear, plenty of cashmere, soft cotton, elasticated waists, dresses that allow for pasta indulgences, floaty linen, footwear that feels like a slipper - I’m here for all of it. Forever more.
What I wear may not be to everyone’s taste but oddly enough, in amongst what the majority wear, to me it goes some way to feeling different - it’s like blending in to stand out. There is nothing obvious, nothing to highlight, to flatter or to draw attention to.
Ignore the clothes, it’s what lies beneath that counts.
