American Adulterer.

Here I am on my sofa, just popped a bottle of red wine, picked at some well past its sell by date ravioli, poked around the bottom of a unnegotiably empty cake box (and I mean serious entire cake not some silly cupcake) and realised that I have perhaps began the slow and steady path to becoming Bridget Jones. Now obviously this idea of becoming Bridge isn't particularly surprising, nor is it remotely profound, and actually it's probably quite insulting to the real single 38 year old women on lo-carb diets (why is there no 'w'? Cutting off any excess weight I suppose), but still for me, in my prime of 20 and relatively thin, it manages to be a little scary. As I get older I can feel myself becoming increasingly apathetic, last year I almost managed to pass it off as grunge but unfortunately these days it's less 'My So Called Life' and more Marks and Spencer's pyjama department. Make-up lost it's hold over my lips in '05, eyeliner was totally gone by '08, foundation was phased out slowly and finally my mascara tube has been firmly screwed shut. I wore make-up to the theatre last week and it was so distracting that I had to go to the bathroom and scrub it off, either I've developed a strange cleanliness compulsive disorder or perhaps I've just realised that rubbing goo into your face feels wierd. I'm inclined to think the latter. All this however does not help my Bridget complex, and while I've never really been a worshipper at the pedestal of MAC, my clothes aren't getting much sympathy either.

For the last couple of years I've prided myself on the ability to wear a different outfit every single day (within reason, different combinations, shoes, you get the drill), something I casually remarked to Daniel one morning on the way into university. The barely audible reply I got fell somewhere between a scoff and a splutter and basically comprised of "Cough um ahem you wear leggings and a big t-shirt every single day... sigh *I wish my girlfried dressed like a normal person*". Obviously I was outraged, but more than outraged, I was ashamed- it is 100% true. I attempt to write a fashion blog while in real life I pretty much wear a rotation of 5 huge t-shirts and 5 pairs of leggings (ranging from a lovely floral to a classic black but I suppose that's beside the point). If I suddenly got given Cher from Clueless's amazing computer generated outfit picker it would just pick me the same outfit with a different colour fill everyday, but probably with a tartan beret and a satchel... Now while you can't take a boy's comments to heart (he doesn't like my hemp dungarees either I mean HELLO), this one did sting a bit, almost as badly as the time in the 6th form common room when I looked down and realised I'd been wearing entirely American Apparel for a week. My roots have grown out to my ears, something I keep trying to explain to everyone is totally on purpose but I'm not quite convinced of myself and my high heels sit forlornly in the corner gathering dust.

There's only one thing for it, from now on I'm going to make an effort to ween myself out of the pyjamas and into something, anything, which is't 45% lycra. Hopefully with the arrival of warm weather and the ability to stop wearing hideous black opaque tights with everything (I can't say I'd be very upset if I never saw another pair in my life) will lift my outfits out of the realm of safety in which they currently reside. Also how do you wear a knee length skirt under a winter coat? It just looks absurd to me. So here's to my new look, if you see me walking through Spitalfields in a shiny silver minidress, do not mock, remember my early life crisis and be kind. Now I'm off for a bubble bath and a Sinead O'Connor singalong but I'll leave you with an image from Ashish's a/w '10 collection. Need I say more?