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a surprising skirt

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Well truth be told, I was dubious about this skirt. I believed it to be one of those clothing items I  see, lust after but never call my own because a decade of blogging has taught me how to look at clothes online and know what they will look like on me rather than the bony, airbrushed model. But my sixth sense does stumble sometimes, especially in the midst of a pre-menstrual war where all I really want to wear is a tent big enough to sleep in. I bloat at the speed of a balloon on a helium pump. The crimson wave is the worst. But with a steadfast determination to ignore the swelling of my stomach, thighs and even, yes cheeks, I shimmied my large derriere into this skirt and quickly laced it up in one breath, hoping that inhaling would soften the bloated blow of the skirt-hoisting. Well, truth be told, breathing was easy, with extra room for a croissant, which I ate later as a celebratory treat, crumbs collecting in the cowl neck of my sweater as I skipped down the street thinking, ‘it’s period time and I don’t look fat! hurray’. Oh how I adore clothes, but so often they feel like the enemy, a traitor, a something you had such high hopes for but the reflection of the mirror squares you up and reflects backed a dashed dream, a dissapointment, a let down. It really is my biggest complaint of the fashion industry, designing all these beautiful garments that really so often seem to favour only one body type: skinny. I have zero ambition to be bone-thin and I’m happy that we are finally as women awakening from this thin-obsession and realizing a female body comes in as many variations as the hair on our heads. I wish fashion would hurry up and follow suite. This is why I genuinely do adore brands like Lasula, their clothes are more comfortable for the curvier women and yet still suited perfectly for the slimmer of us women too (I am not being paid to say this or wear this). As much as I adore Zara, so many of their clothes look absolutely comical on me or at worst, don’t fit at all. And don’t even get me started on Asos, I vowed never to buy from them again after spending triple digits last year on swimwear that would have been better worn as a sock.

what i’m wearing: lasula roll neck mocha sweater, lasula faux suede lace up skirt, roberto festa lace up moana heels & vintage louis vuitton speedy bag

For 3 weeks of the month, I feel the way I should, happy enough with my body with minor yet hugely ridiculous complaints like ‘excessive arm hair’ or ‘fat thumbs’ etc and so on. But that final week of every 30 day cycle? It’s like overnight I am injected with mass amounts of butter and by morning, the scale screams 3 entire kilos heavier, from 24 hours to the next, compliments of my menstrual cycle. I cannot wear any of my jeans, the zipper staggers mid-way up and then surrenders around the beginnings of my puffy thighs and belly. Sportsbras are my preferred underwear, all of my usual bras, too tight and strained under the sudden droopy enlargement of my chest. It is such an affliction in my life and made harder by my profession, where I am having to wear clothes that aren’t sweatpants and pose for photos in them, all the while the ‘hungry hungry hippo’ soundtrack playing in my head as I dramatically try to flip my hair as a distraction from the swelling neck-down. And why on earth am I telling you this? Because we have all been there; the deep intake of breath, the squeeze of a zipper, the dramatic queen like posture and the hesistant half eye peep at the mirror. Hesistantly hopeful but expecting the worst from it’s reflection. And when that glass bounces back at us kindly? It’s a joy of lottery-winning intensity. This is precisely the euphoric epiphany I experienced with this skirt, made even more poignant by my crimson wave dilemma. It just goes to show, you can never really be sure what will look good, but then again, so often the bullying process of trying it on isn’t worth the pain, so I don’t know, I’d say go with what you know most of the time, but every once in a while, take a chance. And then go eat a croissant to celebrate.


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