(.....also known as The One In Which The Sun Shines Out Of My Head.)
My previous post about the signs of my mid-life crisis already included the vaguely fashion-related point, but as we old people are allowed to be scatty and generally fickle, I'm going to blather on about a vaguely clothing-related subject for a bit longer.
I've never really classed myself as a major fashionista. In fact, since working from home, I ashamed to say that my "style" is more slobby than smart. It may therefore come as a bit of a shock to most people to discover that I do actually have a vague interest in fashion and clothing - almost as a "spectator sport", or as one would appreciate art - I wouldn't necessarily hang all of it on my walls, but I can certainly appreciate the design that has gone into it. I think it's fair to say that my personal aim, however, has always been to be "stylish", rather than "fashionable" (a vague dalliance with high fashion in the 80s has left me with enough photographic evidence to prove that slavishly following trends is not always a Good Idea).
My head tells me about the importance of the capsule wardrobe and regularly warns against the dangers of the impulse purchase that does not follow my self-imposed rules. Having said this, there are generally one or two items in my wardrobe that probably go against this general principle. The interesting thing is that some of these items are much loved by myself, and yet appear to create great consternation amongst both my husband and my children when I wear them.
Exhibit one - this fabulous Pringle kimono cardigan that I bought a few years ago at the height of my "I'm never buying anything black ever again" phase. (Note the colour). Some things are bargains you just fall in love with and simply blow any rules out of the window.
Needless to say, the photo above does not do it justice in the slightest. The reason I love it is its versatility - it can be light and airy for a cooler summer day when worn with a vest top underneath, and yet also fabulously warm when I hide my arms in the vast billowing sleeves.
And yet whenever I wear this much-loved item, I can guarantee that at least one of my children will ask why I am wearing it, or comment about me "looking funny". The adult me should respond in a perfectly rational, grown-up way, maybe explaining why this item is so beloved....and yet what seems to happen instead is that I suddenly turn into my teenage self and have flashbacks to the sulky reactions I had whenever my mother used to gently criticise my fashion choices.(It is at this point I should probably grudgingly agree that she may have had a point about the stripey purple cropped dungarees).
In conclusion - if middle age is about finding the things that make you happy and not caring what other people think, I'm definitely all in favour.