Friday, 25 January 2008

Keeping Up With The Jordans

I originally wrote this blog post in around 2003 when studying fashion promotion 'up North'. I'm glad to say that my attitude to fashion has changed somewhat, and I am no longer just jeans-and-t-shirt girl (oh, how age and experience can infinitely improve your confidence), although I still stand by a lot of what I wrote at the time :)

I am beginning to rue the day that I ever signed up for a fashion course, and it’s not because I'm sick of hearing the phrase 'in the Industry'. (Although the next person who says it will likely be garrotted with the pages of their copy of Vogue).
At first I found it rather amusing (alright, I admit it, hilarious) that there were people in the world who would come into a 9am lecture dressed for a night’s clubbing, not because they hadn’t been to bed the night before, but because they chose to. Now, however, the sight of these minor fashionistas is beginning to grate on my fragile little psyche. I feel like Chardonnay Pascoe to their Victoria Beckham; a cable-knit jumper adrift amongst the sea of their infinitely superior cashmere sweaters.
The first few weeks were alright, spent laughing to myself about the disastrous pairing of distressed denim micro-minis with the inclement climate of Northern England in October, but gradually, subtly, their plastic perfection stirred up an unnatural envy in my heart.
I tried to console myself that their 1200 kilowatt sunbed tans would leave them with skin the texture of mock-croc PVC by the age of 30, whilst simultaneously reaching for the Fake Bake with my other hand, reassured by its claims to be the false tan of choice for the likes of Britney Spears and Jennifer Lopez.
It probably doesn’t help that I’m actually only marginally interested in fashion. Don’t get me wrong, I like clothes, and I’m not, by general standards, an unfashionable person, but frankly I couldn’t give a toss what Gucci’s direction for spring/summer 2008 will be, or if Kurdistan is the designers’ latest inspiration hot-spot.
I have attempted the occasional foray into the purchase of more ‘high fashion’ items, but the pink, Manholo Blahnik-style ‘J-Lo’ boots are likely to be forever consigned to the back of the cupboard (seeing as they are now somewhat passé, and the one time I wore them out with the obligatory pleated denim mini, I felt like such a wanker I left the bar early and hobbled home to soak my feet in a lavender foot bath). We won’t even mention the velour hoodie and trackpants, or the irrational, and thankfully unfulfilled, desire for a trilby hat and 80s sweater dress.
And so every week I feel resigned to being the jeans-and-t-shirt girl, silently coveting their seemingly effortlessly-constructed outfits, and their Daddy-bought-me-these perfectly bleached teeth. Even the girl I previously derisively nicknamed ‘Jordan’, thanks to her designer rats tail hair, ample cleavage and slight trout pout, has become a source of envy. Depair set in since I realised that her knees were even podgier than mine, yet she could still pull off the flat-soled, slouchy boots that are so trendy, but that somehow manage to morph into suede wellingtons when translated to my size eight shoe.
Intelligence tells me that, one day, I will look back on this time and realise that, no, the latest Seven jeans cannot buy you happiness (unless, of course, you are the head of the corporation, perhaps), and swanning into a lecture looking like you just stepped out of London Fashion Week will not cure world hunger.
Unfortunately this is unlikely to curb my embarrassment should anyone ever find out that I still buy most of my trousers from the children’s department of a well known high street chain just to save on the VAT. Still, I keep hope alive with the thought that they're probably all far to engrossed in their own little worlds to be interested in me. Either that, or that they really can't see too well through their Christina Aguilera blue-tinted contact lenses.

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