The Blue Jeans Blues

I went shopping for jeans recently. This is something I've been meaning to do for a long time, but have been putting off for as long as possible. Much as I enjoy the odd spot of retail therapy, shopping for jeans is a completely different kettle of fish. Unfortunately, I spend way too much time in jeans to get away with not buying a new pair every couple of years.

So, with the kids at my parents for an impromptu afternoon, it seemed like an opportunity that was too good to miss. If there is one thing I don't want to do while squeezing my thighs in and out of denim, it's have the kids dragging along. So far, so good.

In an ideal world, I would find my perfect pair, and simply buy the same ones every couple of years. The problem is that it just doesn't work like that. For starters, fashion does not pass the humble blue Jean by. For years, the trusty boot cut was my cut of choice. I blame Trinny and Susanna - apparently it had something to do with "balancing out" my childbearing hips. It seemed to work well for me in the days before children and sensible heel heights.

However, the humble bootcut made its way into the fashion wilderness, and (despite the occasional rumbling that this might be the year it returns to favoured status) that has been where it has stayed, usurped recently by the "skinny jean". The main problem with the "skinny" jean being that they don't instantly make you skinny, but instead assume you are waif-like to start with.

Good news, therefore, for those of is with the aforementioned childbearing hips as the "boyfriend" jean made its way into the scene. A looser, more flattering cut. Allegedly.

Now, what I don't understand about the boyfriend jean is why they are only apparently designed for people under five ft. Surely, the whole idea behind this cut is that they originated from women wearing their boyfriend's jeans (the clue is in the name?). Now, what I want to know why are the legs on these things so short?! Are all British boyfriends secretly blessed with the inside leg measurement of a 12 year old? It's just not logical, captain. And don't get me started on "girlfriend" jeans, which are apparently now also a thing.

It's all too difficult, if you ask me.

Which is why I'm now on my 3rd pair of "curvy straight" from The Gap. Middle aged jeans. Still, even that decision wasn't as easy as I might have hoped for. Why do manufacturers insist on fiddling with their sizing so much? Just when I thought I'd got all that American sizing lark sussed, it's gone and changed again.

So, yes, I have purchased 3 pairs of Gap's finest "curvy straight" over the years. I personally have not gained or lost a huge amount of weight in those years. The first pair (long since relegated to gardening only status) still for perfectly well. As do the second and the third. Between them, however, I am wearing what is supposed to be the exact same style in 3 (THREE) different dress sizes.

The nonsensical thing that the latest pair are supposedly a "size zero". No, I didn't believe it either. Exhibit A:






Now, Victoria Beckham is a size zero. Kate Moss is a size zero. I'm definitely not a size zero and probably haven't been since that horrible stomach bug in 1999.

You're not fooling anyone with this nonsense, Mr Gap. I therefore beg you: stop messing with my jeans.

Just. Stop.

Is there anything more frightening than make up counters?

As someone who is very-nearly-but-not-quite-thank-you-very-much 40, it strikes me that it's strange how there are still some things that can instill an irrational amount of fear into me. I'm not necessarily talking about those weird phobias that we all have, but more the kind of things that you would think become easier with practice. Silly things like tipping, public speaking and eating spaghetti in public without getting it all down your front.

One thing, however, that still brings me out in a cold sweat is the department store make-up counter. There's just something incredibly intimidating about those immaculate assistants smiling at you from behind a shiny glass stand with their perfect teeth. A smile that's supposed to signal encouragement but more often than not reeks of pity as you hover nervously wanting simultaneously for them to ignore you and take you in hand and sort you out. My experiences over the years have not been mixed, it has to be said. My first ever purchase was a blusher from a Clinique counter that prompted my then-housemate to declare that the makeover was "quite nice apart from the blusher". Plus, each one of them seems to have been obsessed with putting put me in the brightest Barbie pink lipstick they can find.

I've noticed over the last year or two that I've definitely hit a tipping point when it comes to make-up. Once, I used to wear make-up to look older. Going out without it meant I'd get asked for ID ("I'm 35!" I once squealed at the elderly dear in M&S, secretly wondering if they did it on purpose so that people like me would have a story to boast about), answering the door without it meant the double-glazing salesmen would ask if my parents were in (this happened to me at 31. Have I given you enough clues about how wonderfully youthful I once looked?)

Anyway, these days I'm now at the stage where I wear make-up to look younger. I no longer get asked for ID when I venture out without it. Instead, people act concerned and say things like "you look tired, are you ok?"

Then there are the studies and womens' magazines that tell us things like "36 is the optimum face age" or "women at best at 30, start to age at 41". Plus stuff about how wearing the same "look" you've been wearing since you were 20 isn't flattering once you get past 35. Much as you tell yourself you are above that stuff, eventually the insidious messages get to you. So you finally pluck up the courage to approach the women nearly half your age on a random make-up counter.

"Can I 'elp you?" she says. (Winning smile. French accent)
"mumble...mumble..update look...mumble...mumble..." (pick up random highlighter pen hoping it will leap onto my face and instantly cover up my blushes).

Thankfully she takes charge straight away, and sets to work with a random selection of products, all the time oohing and aaahing over my bone structure and my skin colour, and I'm finally starting to relax. We even converse in my rusty French, and I teach her the word "oomph" for "'ow you say in Eenglish, ze peps?"

It's all going swimmingly. Until, that is, she delivers that killer line: "Ah, I zink we 'ave similar skin. I 'ope mine is as good when I get to your age".

I'm sticking to Boots in future.

via Beauty Blitz

Monday moan.

We watched the film "Gambit" last night. I'm not going to go into a full-on review of the film here, but it was a vaguely amusing (but ultimately pretty forgettable) hour and a half. For brevity alone it gets extra marks - it's nice to find a film these days that isn't an over-inflated 2 and a half hour chore. It was a freebie, so I wasn't too disappointed.

Anyway, the film stars Colin Firth (52), Alan Rickman (67) and Cameron Diaz (40). All well-established actors, no longer in the very first flushes of youth. Why is it, therefore, that Ms Diaz was the only one of the three whose appearance I inwardly commented on, not in a good way, but in a "what has she done to her face" sort of way?

It's no secret that Cameron Diaz had plastic surgery to correct her nose, but a furtive google later and it seems that is not the only work she is rumoured to have had done.

Now, I will acknowledge that it must be bloody hard to be in the public spotlight all the time, judged on your appearance, competing for roles against nubile 20-somethings... but it does depress me how many actresses get into their thirties and forties and start having plastic surgery. The thing is, for every star whose plastic surgery does seem to halt ageing (Demi Moore?), there do seem to be a plethora of stars who just end up looking...well...slightly odd, and I do fear Cameron may well be heading towards a Meg Ryan or Melanie Griffiths.

Now, I don't particularly have a stake in Cameron Diaz's career, but as a mother to daughters it just seems to be another of the many daily reminders of how many double-standards there still are. If Colin Firth and Alan Rickman can be both respected actors and sex symbols at their respective ages, wrinkles and all without going under the knife, why can't Cameron Diaz?






P.S. I love your comments, but sometimes disqus doesn't love mobile devices. If you've got something burning to say, you might have to view the web version of this post. Sorry, and thank you!

In Which I Admit My Morning Shortcomings

I'm a Libran. Now, I'm putting this out there because, according to the wisdom that is Astrology, there are two traits that Librans possess that coincidentally happen to quite strongly apply to me - this first one is that I'm terribly indecisive, the second is that I'm really not a fan of conflict. We Librans are (allegedly) known for our tact and diplomacy (My mother always used to say I should have joined the Diplomatic Service, but actually I've often wondered if the Diplomatic Service really is that diplomatic? After all, strikes me as all Ambassadors seem to do is get called in to be shouted at.)

Oh, I'm also quite known to digress quite a lot.

Anyhow, in nearly three (!) years on Twitter, I've never really had a massive run-in with anyone. I'm more the type to either ignore or quietly unfollow if I see something in my timeline I don't agree with, rather than start an argument. A lot of people would probably consider that terribly cowardly, but it's just not my style. For me, Twitter as a place for a bit of fun and banter, and it makes me uncomfortable when things get too "heavy".

Now, yesterday morning, I sent the following tweet:

Dear women who wear foundation, blusher and lipstick on the school run(and are not heading to an office afterwards), you are freaks. Ta.
— Julie (@SardineTin) September 13, 2012

A pretty flippant, throwaway sort of remark that was tweeted after returning red-faced and "glowing" from the school run. It seemed to go down relatively well, with various people replying, favouriting, re-tweeting etc. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I woke up this morning to find a reply that I hadn't seen from last night, accusing me of being judgemental and "unsisterly". I thought about it, and to be honest, it is probably a fair point.

Now, don't get me wrong, I happen to like wearing make-up. I try not to look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards. I try to throw a minimal amount of eyeshadow and mascara on my face and show my hair a hairbrush, but I am genuinely in awe of those who go further than this every morning. Those that wear as much make-up on the school run as I would on a typical night out (oh, and don't get me started on those that wear foundation with lycra! To the gym?! Why?! How?!)
I confess that one of my best"mum friends" prompted the tweet yesterday. She has a five-year old, a 3 year-old and a FOUR WEEK OLD, yet still managed to wear full eye make-up, foundation, blusher and lipstick. I honestly don't know how she does it.

This morning ran roughly as follows in the Tin house:

6.30 Alarm goes off
6.35 Drag self out of bed, go downstairs, make coffee and toast for husband (yes, yes, I know, I'm a SUCKER for making his breakfast, but quite honestly I like to drink my coffee in peace for ten minutes while listening to the radio, so it suits me). Check Twitter.
6.40 DD1 (7) appears, still in pyjamas, demanding milk and toast. (Unusually early for her, she's normally the last one up, around 7)
6.55 DD1 demands that I play Mikado with her, I fob her off.
6.59 Husband leaves house.
7.00 DD2 (5) appears, thankfully dressed in school uniform, but also demanding toast. Make third lot of toast.
7.01 DD1 still demanding game of "pick-up sticks". I grudgingly agree. Play Mikado.
7.10 Try and get DD2 to read reading book. (Yes, I know, should have done this last night.).
7.20 Make self porridge. Wolf it down. Check Twitter.
7.25 Put on fourth round of toast. Leave children eating it and mutter something about getting dressed and head upstairs. Shower. Head back downstairs to find children dancing to One Direction.
7.40 Nag DD1 to get dressed. Compromise by promising to put music on upstairs.
7.50 Get self dressed, apply minimal eye make-up.
7.55 Repeatedly nag children to brush teeth. Check Twitter.
8.05 Children finally brush teeth
8.07 Tell DD2 to fetch dry tights as she has spilled water all over them
8.15 Repeatedly nag children to put shoes and coats on.
8.20 Leave house.
8.50 return to house, flustered and probably in need of another shower...

On a Monday-Wednesday, when the children go to breakfast club, this pattern is pretty similar, but on a more compressed basis, with higher-pitched nagging (seriously, can anyone tell me why I pay for my children to go to "breakfast" club if they eat one at home anyway?).

So, women who manage to put on your full face in the morning - yes, I still think you're freaks, but, let's face it, it's only because I'm jealous...

If all else fails, just add celebrity sunglasses

Hair Dilemmas

Hair is weird, isn't it? Women spend forever fussing over it. If it's not removing excess body hair (a whole separate subject in its own right), it's fiddling with the stuff on our heads.
My own hair has been on my mind a lot lately as I know it's time for another visit to the hairdresser. I know this, because I have started tying my hair back a lot because it just doesn't quite sit right any more. Luckily I know a trip to my trusty salon will sort me out pretty quickly. (I've perfected the art of the messy bun by now, and although I'd love to attempt a thick, luscious ponytail as modelled by Victoria Beckham et al, somehow it just looks like a scraggy 5 year old's... which does make me wonder - how old is too old for a ponytail?) 

I have a good relationship with my hairdresser - I've been going to the same salon for longer than I care to remember, and, with the exception of her two maternity leaves, the same stylist has chopped my locks for that time (including wedding hair, the lot). It's fair to say I trust her judgement and she knows the kind of thing that would work with my "lifestyle", my poker straight tresses, face shape, blah, blah.

It's been a while since my last visit, and I probably shouldn't have left it as long as I have. It's been even longer since I last had the colour tended to. Much as it might shock some of you to learn (ahem), while I would class myself as a "natural blonde" for want of any other definition, the shade I have sported for probably the last ten years is a tad lighter than what nature blessed me with. I have to look back at old pictures to remind myself that I actually quite like my natural colour. Unfortunately for it, most of the time now I merely think of it as "roots" when the blonde highlights haven't been touched up.

All those chemicals can't be good for it, however, and I think it might be time to give my hair a bit of a rest from all those poxygloxylycins. The thing that has occurred to me, however, is what happens if the colour underneath has changed after all these years? What if I'm - horror of horrors - going grey?! Of course there is really only one way to find out, and luckily for women it's more socially acceptable to go back to dying hair...

Maybe I should try a blonde afro?

Body Celebration, or The Frankenstein Blogger

Google +...it seems you either love it, hate it or are completely oblivious to it.

I, for one, love it. Maybe it's just the fact that I am one of the few people that don't have a facebook account, but I post fairly regularly on there. In fact, in a lot of ways I use it like an extension of Twitter - down to the fact I was been invited by someone from Twitter, and most of the people in my circles are the weirdoes and reprobates those I talk to on Twitter too.

Anyway, a couple of Twitter friends and I regularly post Man or Woman of the day - a kind of Hot or Not that generally just degenerates into a weird slanging match that most of you probably are frankly best off steering well clear of. After another random celebrity got pulled apart for whatever reason, it led to another of my rambling thoughts about body image.

I've mentioned in the past about various things I don't like about my appearance, but I thought it was time to turn the tables a little and focus on the positives. If anyone were to ask me which bit I did like, I would probably say my waist. Maybe my lips too, but mainly my waist.

In a lot of ways it's not a very exciting body part, but I distinctly remember as a young teenager lying in my bed and tracing the curve of my hip and waist, and feeling decidedly womanly. Later on, I was (un)fortunate to be in my prime when crop-tops were at the height of fashion, and a cinched in waist was a useful thing to show off. Now, after the passage of time and having given birth to two children, the skin may not be as taut as it used to be, but I'm lucky enough to still be able to fit into the same clothes as I could 20 (eek) years ago.

Women's magazines often feature an "ideal" celebrity, with features that apparently all women lust after - Jennifer Aniston's hair, Angelina's lips etc etc, and I wondered whether we could create a whole person out of our favourite body parts...

I'd therefore love to know what your favourite bit of you is. If you're feeling really brave, you could email me a picture (email address is on the "About" page), or post it on your blog and we can even see if we can get a whole person together...

Size Matters

I came across the image above on the deepest, darkest depths of the internet recently and it finally jolted me into writing a post that has been floating around the corners of my mind for quite some time.  I have somehow never managed to make the jumbled thoughts in my head on this one into a reasoned post as it’s a horribly emotive subject, so I hope I can manage it this time.

Let me make it clear before I start; I am sure the thought behind the original slogan; “Real Women Have Curves” is admirable, in that it is trying to get women to accept their bodies for what they are, not the stick-thing models they see in magazines. And yet, I will admit that every time I see it, it irks me terribly. You see, I have blogged before about how I am not a fan of labels if they can possibly be avoided, and it strikes me that there is a danger with this thought of simply replacing one unrealistic ideal (women have to be thin) with another one that may be shoehorning women into another defined box (women have to have “curves”).

I’ve thought long and hard about what it actually means for a woman to be curvy, and as with most things, if you trawl the internet for long enough you come across so many different definitions as to be pretty meaningless. One messageboard tells me that “when women describe themselves as "curvy", it's the new code word for "fat"” (charming, I think you’ll agree). The general consensus, however, appears to be that it means women have to be small waisted, large-bottomed, and most importantly, large chested.

Now, there is certainly absolutely nothing wrong with being a perfect hourglass shape. The fact of the matter is that not every woman is that shape, however. It may be true that women's chest and dress sizes have increased over the last 50 years, but that doesn't necessarily mean that everyone suddenly looks like Marilyn Monroe. Look at any high street and you will see a vast array of different shapes and sizes.

I suppose you will think I am lucky when I say that I have been naturally slim-ish all my life (yes, I might even have been called "skinny" at one point or another). That doesn't mean I haven't had plenty of hang-ups about my own body. Take the breast size debate, for example. It's not a huge secret to anyone that knows me that God missed adding some padding "up top" when he created me. Every time I get frustrated by lingerie companies that start sizing their sizing at a B-cup, I try and console myself with the fact I can still shop in the “my first bra” section of M&S if I really wanted to. (Hoorah for choice.) Technically I may have curves in that I am blessed with a small waist and large-ish hips, but I certainly don't recognise myself in the descriptions of curvy that I have seen. Id' like to think it doesn't make me any less real, however!

Photoshopping is commonplace in both fashion magazines and glamour shoots, and the rise of plastic surgery means nobody has to look as nature intended if they don't want to. As a mother to two girls, this saddens me greatly. I would like to think that growing up they will be accepted for how they look, whether that is like Twiggy or like Dawn French, and, most importantly, for them to be happy in their bodies. The last thing I would want is for them to feel the need to look like Katie Price because that is somehow what is now expected!

Saying that Real Women have curves is therefore meaningless and dangerous in my opinion– we might as well say real women are green. Can't we just agree that all women are real women, just like all men are real men, and that is all that matters?