Two days ago, I took a deep breath and threw out all my Vogues. The great throw-out of 2010 was in preparation for the great overseas trip of 2010, which is likely to be preceded by the great panic attack of 2010, which itself will be followed by the great beer guzzle of 2010.
I expected the sight of all those glossy pages filled with Marc Jacobs, Dior, expensive lipstick and stories about princesses on Greek Islands to break my heart as they landed in the recycling bin. Way back when, Vogue magazines helped me choose my Year 10 formal dress (based on Gwen Stefani’s red prom dress by John Galliano), get inspiration for my graduation dress (based on Givenchy’s little black dress Audrey Hepburn wore in Sabrina) and helped me choose the colour of my wedding dress. But, as I looked down into the bin I realised as much as I’ve always been interested in clothes and fashion, I’ve never really got it right. I let my black clothes turn grey, I wear out my shoes, I buy cheap rip-offs, I never get the right size, I only get my hair cut once every six months and my red lipstick always ends up on my chin.
Here are some examples of my fashion failings through time:
I wrote about this outfit before. I don’t think I need to tell what’s wrong with it. The layering? The colour? The mank hair? The constipated expression?
Oh great Steve, buy a thick-strapped white bra. Wash said bra with dark coloured items. Wear newly corpse-grey bra under white singlet. Then go to a gay bar and wonder why no one wants to hang out with you except the dude you’ve trapped with your unwanted pregnancy. Which I’m assuming is the case here, what with that MATERNITY bra and all.
This was taken at Taronga Zoo. Clearly, I caught some of the poop one of the chimps threw at me and rubbed it into my fringe. Either that or I got a fringe cut, never had it trimmed, let it get greasy and took it out on a date with me.
You may think that giant green sparkly hat is the issue here. But no. I remember feeling so happy while posing for this photo. I’d just been to a music festival, completed a scary task I never thought I’d be capable of (no, it did not involve knee pads) and it was nearly Christmas. If only I realised I was wearing a hideous dress-shirt one size too small. Nice tuckshop lady boobs, Steve.
The most recent example. No, I didn’t stop at double denim. I obviously ate several pies, slipped into a tight white singlet and completely massacred a wonderful cropped jacket by Built By Wendy right on the doorstep of Government House. My arms were lost in the historic battle.
Yep, I’m getting myself a lifetime subscription to Caravaning Australia and Guns, Beer and Hummers instead. Obviously, that’s where I really belong.