They say that with age comes a self-assurance, confidence and sensibility that seeps into every aspect of your being, from work, to relationships… to style!
Well…while I agree with SOME of the sentiments of this idea, I hasten to disagree with the latter inference that age is an antidote to the kind of ‘dresser’s despair’ that has been making me late (and stressed) in equal measure since #dresstoimpress time began!
In my case, the advancing years have cultivated this clothing indecisiveness in a way that doesn’t necessarily befit the *almost* Fabulous at Forty promise that I’ve been been sold for all these years.
If anything, it feels more like ‘Faffing at Forty’, judging by the raft of procrastination that this milestone looks set to arrive on.
Essentially, what this all means, is that I’m no closer to a ‘capsule wardrobe’ nirvana now, than I was in the halcyon add-to-cart days of going ‘out-out’ every weekend, when it was almost impossible to see the outfits for the clothes!
In spite of all the ummimgs-and-ahhings, however, and the ensuing scenes of dressing room devastation, there is one small consolation, it seems…
That is, I’m not alone!
Having spoken to one of my girlfriends about my wardrobe woes, I was reassured to discover that she too was experiencing what I have since discovered is called a ‘clothing crossroads,’ a hallmark of which is the kind of nothing-to-wear syndrome that all good job interview/date night/wedding guest nightmares are made of.
Contrary to first impressions, this paradox is nothing to do with dress size, or even fashion trends (I always knew leggings weren’t entirely to blame the shellsuit’s fall from grace.)
Fundamentally, instead, it seems to be about something deeper. An evolution of self, if you will, for which there is no greater metric, than the extent to which you can no longer get away with wearing Topshop. 😭
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