Angst in My Pants – Laying the Foundations to a Better Wardrobe & a Better You.

“To put it bluntly, I seem to have a whole superstructure with no foundation. But I’m working on the foundation.”

Marilyn Monroe

Foundations, foundations, foundations

In this time of economic upheaval when we all share a feeling of angst in our collective pants we are prone to retreat to the sofa of self-preservation and comfort-eat ourselves silly. One Friday, when my parents had opted for the Indian take away cure-all, my mother attempted to pay the expressionless cashier with a pair of black lacy knickers she had pulled from the cavernous depths of her handbag. The cashier gazed, unfazed, as my mother tried to convince onlookers that she had not intended to offer her underwear, or any other services hinted at, in exchange for a lamb korma, but carried the offending item with her just ‘in case’. “There’s nothing worse than being without clean knickers,” she explained. Or with, in this instance. And yet she had a point – when it gets down to it, we all need to get back to basics and think: foundations, foundations, foundations.

In my quest for a more ethical and eco-friendly wardrobe the question of underwear has proved somewhat problematic. And I’m not talking fancy fripperies – you know, those cobweb-like affairs made by fairy-fingered folk entirely for the benefit of the beholder, with little care for the Ruben-esque curves they should be holding. I’m talking the bread and butter of your underwear collection, which should be like a lover: comfortable, reliable and effective. And, if like me, you have more dash than cash, affordable too.

Part 1: Bras

We’ll work from the top down.  This week we’ll talk about bras. 

Multi-Breasted Fertility Goddess Syndrome (MFG)

Many a splendid breast is being let down by an unwise choice of bra. A lot has been said about the perils of VPL (‘visible pantie line’ for those of you still unaware), but the subject of the many multi-breasted fertility goddesses roaming the streets is hardly mentioned. MFG is, in my humble opinion, one of the biggest enemies of the stylish ensemble. Yes, the whole deciphering your cup-size thing can be a little daunting, and I guess some, like the woman on the 133, may even be tempted to let them all hang out, long, limp and pendulous – but ladies, the cleavage should always be situated around the upper chest area and not risk being sat on by a fellow passenger.

To be honest I’ve had my fair share of trouble with bras on buses, notably with my first bra (more wishful thinking than breast-ful needing I have to admit ) , which, having so little to cling onto gave up the ghost, released itself from its moorings and displayed its wrinkled, white, deflated self about my neck like a pair of sad old balloons left over from a party. I’m sorry to say my years of bra-blems are not over and I am often forced to endure the errant bra strap scenario, which encourages a sort of lopsided shrug in order to keep it in check – think Quasimodo.

Like a glove...

 

And once you’ve got yourself a reliable bra which fits like a glove, then remember: one bra does not fit all occasions. Obviously there’s the whole strapless / backless consideration, but colour is also important. I once had to swap bras with my sister, in a nightclub lavatory, because she had worn white beneath a black top, resulting in her breasts glowing like Belisha Beacons in the ultra violet lighting – rumour has it she was the inspiration behind Electric Six’s video for Danger! High Voltage.

Bra-sics – Where to go for the green, the good and the glamorous:

Greenfibres Green goddesses go here

Figleaves – Green Leaves is every Eve’s fave eco undies department

Ciel – Organic undies

Sleek ‘n’ Chic – Vintage va va voom

Next time we’ll be talking pants!

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Gok & Goth – Beauty Revolution & Revelation

No amount of styling is going to help if you aren’t happy in your own skin (The word according to Gok -allegedly).

Gok - style god or devil in disguise?

Go Gok!  And so I was really keen about the whole Miss Naked Beauty thing. No, not a naturist pageant.  It’s a “search for a modern-day Eve” …  “a woman who embodies … confidence, spirit, sex appeal, brains and beauty (inside and out).”  The winner will be crowned beauty ambassador to the masses, writing industry exposes for Glamour magazine.  I liked the idea, just not so sure about the execution. The Times’ TV critic, Andrew Billen, wrote:

“Gok lured a herd of wannabe beauty queens to Blackpool pier and thence to an old-fashioned municipal swimming baths from which the water had been emptied. With just 15 seconds warning the women, already stripped to their underwear, were then hosed down until every trace of make-up was exterminated.

“Girlfriends, I love you!” shrilled Gok, perhaps to prevent aberrant images of the Holocaust popping into viewers’ minds.” 

Yep, my initial reaction was ‘cattle’, ‘slaughter’ and ‘holocaust’, however having watched subsequent episodes I’ve come to think that ‘the pool scene’ was not so much massively misjudged as an uber cool calculation – it got people talking.  And perhaps it was a symbolic death for those women.  Or for the seaside beauty pageant.  In a way it could be seen as a ritual marking a transition, a phoenix rising from the ashes, that sort of thing – or is that just my Classical education rearing its ugly head?

Death of the beauty queen

It wasn’t until I was doing a bit of digging behind the scenes for this here piece, that I realised how Gok is loved and loathed in pretty much equal measure across the press.  Hadley Freeman writing for The Guardian quoted one paper as dubbing the stylist “the saviour of modern womanhood”; whilst goddess of morning TV Lorraine Kelly calls him “the messiah”.  Oooh, ‘Eve’, ‘saviour’, ‘messiah’, the Biblical references abound!  There’s nothing like building someone up so you can watch them fall… consider other positive high profile campaigns: Jamie Oliver’s School Dinners – now the Ministry of Food – or the Anya Hindmarch / We Are What We Do ‘I’m Not a Plastic Bag’, for example, both of which received some overly hostile responses in the media and sometimes by the public.  The problem: no-one likes a smart arse telling them what to do – especially if there’s a whiff of hypocrisy to be found (M&S poster girl, Mylene Klass, crusading for women to go au naturel whilst herself daubed in war paint, for instance). And I’d question the unbiased nature of any report this Miss Naked Beauty ambassador may ‘write up’ in Glamour magazine – won’t their advertising sponsors have something to say about that? 

Theda Bara - the vamp

The “essential beauty kit” the contestants were given in the third episode really intrigued me though – capsule beauty, great!  I have to say, nothing overwhelms me more than the vast array of beauty products available nowadays, and the idea that there were just five essentials calmed my overloaded, advertising weary mind.  I wish they hadn’t included Vaseline though.  My mum, long time beauty therapist and former owner of a health & beauty salon, swears by the stuff;  but as a petroleum by product it ain’t that eco friendly or that great for your skin; and it’s not so much a moisturiser as a barrier – I use it when tinting my eyelashes, to protect the surrounding skin and thus avoiding the Theda Bara look. Wouldn’t shea butter have been a more appropriate ‘all-round good guy’ product?

Talking of vampires, the revelation that the goth goddess girl had the best skin, age-wise, was a great advocate for keeping outta the sun… and being a goth, I guess.  Most the other contestants had skin aged 5 – 9 years older than their actual age, whereas goth goddess’s was about 8 years younger! Mum, a bit of a tanorexic in her heyday saw a lot of ladies who lunched and lounged in the sun suffering with skin cancer, so advised my sister and I to keep out of the sun, or at least slap on the sun block and shades.  Although she did complain about the resulting obsession with black and boots on the beach – if we ever ventured into daylight.  So, maybe it’s ‘Go Goths!’ And being nocturnal and thus ‘pale and interesting’ is the answer to eternal youth – rather than drinking the blood of virgins a la Elizabeth Bathory (think Ingrid Pitt in Countess Dracula!).   

Perhaps Addams Family style will become the norm and Goth Lolitas will haunt high streets everywhere.  Posh and Kate will be ousted and fashion icons will be Kirsten Dunst in Interview with a Vampire; or Winona Ryder in Beetle Juice as we encounter not so much a Gok revelation, as a Goth revolution…

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The Fast Coach to Gorgeousville

Like moths to a flame...

I want to feel good in my own skin and I reckon that means making myself over inside AND out.  So I’ve signed onto an on-line life coaching course: Be Gorgeous.  The course description says: “You can possess that special brand of effortless confidence and style that makes gorgeous people stand out and draws people toward them.”  Sounds just the job, I thought, so I forked out £25 for the 6 module course – for £175 you can upgrade to a Plus Course, entitling you to two hours of personal coaching.  But being slightly impecunious at the mo – though overwhelmingly abundant of course!! – I just opted for well, the cheaper package…

So anytime soon I should be attracting people to my person like moths to a flame – hopefully some of them moths inhabiting my purse will be zapped in the process!  I will keep you posted…

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I AM the Fairest One of All – Loving Yourself Warts ‘n’ All

“I used to be Snow White, but I drifted…” as the inimitable Mae West once said.  Actually I wasn’t purposely Snow White – although I love the whole hair black as night, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood thing… very Vampira – I was actually more… off-white… cream, in fact.  Head to foot in cream, with a hood and everything.  This prompted a loud-mouth youth in Southend High Street to bawl out, “Oi, Snow White!” And I shrunk, tortoise-like, into the cavernous depths of my hood, horrified. That was the point of most my clothes then, they were a disguise – though not always so literally.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall..."

I never had a style as such, more like a theatrical costume – or props department – a character for every occasion.  One day, when I was about 11, I had looked in the mirror of our sauna-style bathroom – what was with that look? – and watched myself submerge into its silvery depths, like a mermaid, and reappear Laura Palmer blue – I didn’t recognise me any more. And for a long time after I played at being anybody else but me – except one of them people in the Body Shock documentaries.

It wasn’t until the day I got married, in a dress I felt all wrong in, my scalp singed and my hair pulled into a knot by a mad Italian hairdresser, that I realised becoming Mrs Somebody was not the answer to eliminating Little Miss Nobody – she looked at me from the mirror with her ‘I told you so…’ expression and I knew I had some facing up to do. 

Where had my fairytale gone tits up? When searching through the evidence, photos bore testament to the fact that no matter how much real jewellery, designer scarves, or Thomas Pink shirts I layered on, I was fake.  I’d adopted – voluntarily I admit – someone else’s idea of me.  And I could hear my mother saying, “You used to love colour!  If I see you in another shade of beige, I’ll scream!  You look like death!”  I later realised I had been suffering from a severe case of Beige Zombosis.

At its worst, this disease manifested itself as a desire to create the perfect capsule wardrobe.  In itself this holy grail of sartorial zendom is not a bad objective.  I mean, even Einstein, had a capsule wardrobe of sorts, apparently comprising of seven versions of the same outfit.  Sounds pretty dull, but he had that crazy ass hair-style thing going on, so he didn’t want to go overboard, and he knew what he felt most cosy in when doing all them formulas, so voila!  Ultimately if the point of clothes is to do a job, then the capsule wardrobe is like an elite task force.

Albert Einstein Style

This whole capsule wardrobe thing had me going for a while.  In fact I spent the time I was meant to be writing my novel, trawling the length and breadth of London searching for the pieces which would create this seemingly elusive ideal.  It was when I was packing for my honeymoon and I filled the entire flat with various ensembles for every conceivable occasion, but still felt as if I had ‘simply nothing to wear’, that I realised something had gone horribly wrong.  Dun, dun, dah!  Half finished chapters of my novel flew up and slapped me in the face; French vocab stickers I had studiously ignored in my attempt to learn the language of lurve mocked me at every turn; and playing cards flew through the air… oh no, wrong story.  Basically, I was starting but I wasn’t finishing – anything, ever…

So right now although I have moved on somewhat, I am still standing in the fall out of this unhappy episode, wondering how to pick my way through the debris.  And I may be itching to get the hell outta here, but rule number one when changing anything is:  Learn to love yourself the way you are and where you are NOW.  Stand in the midst of the disarray that is your wardrobe, look into your make-up smeared mirror and say, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who in the land is fairest of all?” and accept the reply, “You, my queen, are fairest of all.” without cracking up.

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Introduction – Piles: a Pain in the Ass

Confusion and uncertainty reigns not just in the worlds’ banks but also in my wardrobe – Is my wardrobe a physical manifestation of worldwide fiscal turmoil; personal confusion; or just a plain mess? ‘As within, so without’ as they say…

Abandon hope all ye who enter here

I’ve lost my black elastic belt, the one I got to replace the other one, which pinged off as I was talking to my manager. I could have left it in any number of places, but it’s hard to tell, given the state of my wardrobe, which is almost literally bulging at the seams – ahem. And it wouldn’t be so annoying, except that this particular belt is the vital component of many of my outfits; it kinda holds everything together; and I am forced to make do with the unreliable belt I had thrown on the ‘for charity, Freecycle, potential swap or sell’ pile. This pile has migrated from the bedroom to the living room corner to make way for the ‘mending’, ‘adapting’, ‘too small’, ‘too formal’, ‘out of season’ and ‘just not sure’ piles.

The ‘pile’ situation, masquerading as organisation in progress, is getting out of hand with many garments apparently missing in action. This results in a certain amount of uncertainty when getting dressed in the morning; and I often leave the house feeling harassed, slightly dishevelled, and precariously held together by my capricious, ready-to-spring-off-at-any-time belt.

I can’t help but think all this confusion is a physical manifestation of the inner workings of my mind… eeerrrgh, it’s a mess. Can I feng shui my wardrobe? Is there such a thing? Cos I think it [and by extension, I guess, my mind] has some sort of energy block. Will organising my external world help my inner and spiritual well-being and vice versa?

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