I came to a startling realization yesterday: I am not, in fact, a fashion model.
I realize this will come as a massive surprise to most of you out there in Blogland, those of you whose minds form an immediate image of the genetic offspring of Giselle and Kate Moss at the mere mention of Mother Hen, because, let’s face it: Motherly figures and chickens DEFINITELY evoke images of svelte Vic Secret pinups and runway models. Of course they do!
Still, because my Mirror and my Bank Account both lie to me on a regular basis, facts over which I alternately despair and rejoice depending on how long since my last paycheck or until my next carb-fest, I decided that I needed to purchase some travelling clothes for this trip to the States. Yes, I am well aware that American clothes are cheaper. America is the Land of the Free and the Home of Outlet Mall.
Nevertheless, I did a spot of shopping in advance of our trip to the States, netting a couple pair of beautiful brogues, patent oxblood lace-ups and a pair of silver slip-ons, which pleased me very much indeed. Shoes, I have discovered, never let me down. Regardless of any image issue I may currently be struggling with, when I look down and see a pair of stylish shoes, I am a happy girl.
In this moment of retail madness, I also snagged a pair of slouchy cuffed boyfriend jeans and a trio of T-shirts. There was a sale on, and my Inner Fashionista was convinced she could rock the whole slouchy jeans, novelty T-shirt, biker belt and Birkenstock theme. Not exactly Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but, if the high street windows were to be believed, it was meant to be the perfect combination of comfort and casual style.
Mother Hen’s Inner Fahionista planned to travel in cool, rock-chick comfort.
My Mirror, which had lied to me on shopping day, decided that the morning of my departure was the day to get honest with me. “Girl,” it said, “you are no Giselle…you are no Kate…”
“Fine, whatever,” I replied, fastening up the biker belt on my cuffed jeans, the same ones that had looked so great with my sandals and T-shirt only the day before.
“You are a curvy, 48-year-old lady with weight issues,” my mirror told me. “All the cool clothes in the world cannot change that. Rather than the 5-foot-10 you thought you were yesterday when you were out shopping, you are in fact only 5-foot-4 and a bit, and cuffed jeans are probably not the most flattering look for you.”
“Now you tell me,” I snapped. “Where were you in the dressing room when my Bank Account was assuring me these were a good deal?” I jammed the front of my T-shirt into the belted jeans front and left the back loose, exactly as this look was displayed in the high street window. “Where were you when I was clipping the tags and giving these bad boys their forever home?”
My mirror maintained a silence that spoke louder than any words, revealing nothing but the cold hard truth. I frowned at the Real Me and clumped down the stairs to the foyer, only to find Handsome Hubby wheeling our bags out into the driveway to await our lift to the airport. And when I say Handsome, I am not exaggerating. Though he had not spent more than 30 seconds considering what he was going to wear on the plane, Handsome cut a fine, broad-shouldered form in his navy tweed blazer, striped button-down and jeans.
Handsome was as he is always: Effortlessly fit, and looking unaccountably young. He was Mark Darcy to my Bridget Jones.
Inner Fashionista crumpled into a frumpy heap and dragged her Birkenstocks to the car, knowing as she did that her Bank Account would no doubt have a few home truths to tell her once she returned from the Land of the Outlet Mall as well.
Meanwhile, I console myself with the fact that Bridget did get her man in the end, and I just happen to be on holiday with my own. Maybe this is not a complete loss after all…
To be continued…
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