The fashion hoarding optimist

Every time I read a magazine in Spring they are advising me to clear out my wardrobe and throw out anything you haven’t worn in 6 months. 6 months! I have new clothes that I haven’t worn in 3 years. Damn I still have my first Levis jacket from aged 15. I still have my first bra! Yes my precious, my name is Chelsea and I’m a fashion hoarding optimist. I know this because:

  1. I believe that I can slim into anything. Yes, I haven’t been a size 6 in over 10 years but they are always on the sale racks. It’s rude not to take them home.
  2. I conveniently forget I am African and have the butt to prove it. You know how Charlize Theron’s dress slinks onto the floor in that advert? Well I do it and it just slinks…then sits stubbornly on my waist. My secret fear is that if I was with a group who got stuck on a desert island I may be sacrificed first and they would live off my butt for a month.
  3. I believe I can make anything into something fabulous. Like the men I date all clothes have potential. However superglue is my friend as I failed Domestic Sciences.
  4. Sales and second hand are my retail temptations. I can’t resist a bargain or something that has a history.
  5. I believe that all fashions will eventually come back into style if I just hold out so I keep everything.
  6. I believe that anything I like or love will never go out of fashion. Fuchsia is the new black.
  7. My mirror lies to me ALL the time. Facebook photos on the other hand, don’t. I think it’s time I got a full length mirror
  8. I believe that I may gain weight at any moment so keep 3 wardrobes at any one time. One for the real me, one for the size 6 me that will never be and one for the fat me I fear I may one day be.

But this summer I decided that I was going to accept their challenge and wear my clothes or throw out anything that I haven’t worn in over 6 months…ok a year…ok 2 years. Baby steps. I couldn’t justify 3 different wardrobes. No wonder I have no space for anyone else to move in.

And, I did try my precious. Take last Saturday. Dinner at Shanghai Blues in Holborn and I wore my vintage stiletto Prada heels, figure hugging PVC like pants and a halter neck top. I did a cursory jiggle in the mirror and left the flat sans the flats. I know my precious but I wanted to use my tiny denim Guess handbag and they wouldn’t fit.

I took a taxi to the tube station but the stilettos kept getting caught in the escalator staircase gaps. I felt decidedly wobbly and cursed not taking that ‘walk in high heels’ course more seriously. Instead the short walk to the restaurant left me shaking. I claimed hunger but me and the heels knew the real deal. I was a fake.

As I sat there discussing dim sum my friend Olga alerted me to my peep show and then sum! An escaped nipple for appetisers wasn’t on the menu. Wardrobe malfunction!

Black girl falling on heels

A gorgeous dinner done and we walked to Tamarai. A gasp from Jamel and Heidi revealed that my skin tight pants were now low riders giving me African builders crack. I spent most of the night with my butt against the cold bar. The music was great but I wasn’t feeling secure enough on the heels to do more than a cursory jiggle. Besides who knew what body part would escape next?

Bless, I did get one guy chat me up. He was a short Asian, Thai fighter with great abs he made me feel and erm, his name was Abs. He told me I was the best looking girl in Tamarai which is code for the girl with the most on display and most likely to go home with him. So it’s not all bad being fashion hording and optimistic if you like short men with blonde streaked hair and pictures of his car that he had sold last week.

3 words of advice though: bra, belt and blister cream. Some clothes had never been worn for a reason. The next day I threw the top on the charity shop pile and bought a belt. But, I wonder if I should just superglue furry trimming onto those heels and try again?  I’m guessing no.

So take care my precious and be assured that no shoes were hurt or damaged in the writing of this blog.  Just my dignity.

© Chelsea Black

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