You know those moments in life when you know something good is going to happen so you dress accordingly; something in which you feel pretty, feminine or even damn hot.
You might pull on a killer pair of heels to add height and a bit of sex appeal or even brush your hair (I judge an event’s importance by whether I brush my hair or simply poke it with my fingers).
Well, last Friday wasn’t one of those days.
It was the kind of day when I was running late for work because I’d been trying to learn the dance moves to Salt N Pepa’s ‘Push It’ for my best friend’s hen’s night so I threw on the first clothes I could find.
Skirt. Singlet (that’s a vest for my UK readers). Shoes. Outfit complete … hurry it’s time to go (well, it was 10 minutes ago)!
Then, hours later—while sitting at my desk and far away from my wardrobe filled with dresses in various shades of blue, pink, red and stripes—I remembered that it was the day I was interviewing a very attractive man.
Think McDreamy but with a touch of Hugh Grant’s floppy hair … not entirely floppy, just messy in a manly kind of way.
While he was looking hot, I was more of a hot mess. In orange.
And I’m not talking a pretty pinky orange, peach or soft and feminine apricot; I’m talking witches hat ORANGE. Prison jumpsuit orange. Orange orange.
It’s fair to say, orange is not my colour. This is mostly because it’s just a few shades darker than yellow, which is also not my colour.
The last time I wore such a sunny hue was while cheering on Leyton Hewitt at Wimbledon with the Fanatics and mum text (while watching from Australia) to tell me that yellow wasn’t my colour.
And that white jeans were not my greatest fashion choice—especially when the BBC kept doing zoomed-in aerial shots which made my thighs look somewhat familiar to Bridget Jones’ bottom sliding down the fireman’s pole.
Over and over again.
You’d think that after years of running into someone I secretly love/lust after/loathe while looking total bollocks (usually in some kind of stained or even worse … LYCRA) I’d have learnt my lesson and just dressed normally.
Especially when my wardrobe contains so much potential.
Shall I go for one of the newly acquired and already much-loved Mister Zimi frocks? Nah … I’m just going to be sitting at my desk all day and that would be a waste.
What about the Cue pink number reminiscent of Carrie Bradshaw’s hot pink number above? Nah … save it for a day when there are post-work drinks.
But no. Because I have an irrational fear of wasting a good outfit on an average day. Instead I try to save them for I’ve got something good to do. For a day when I need a hit of frock courage.
For when I decided that after three years of them hanging in my closet with their tag still attached, that I should actually wear them.
So instead I grab whatever is closest and that is the moment when the universe decides it’s time for fun and sends along someone who I don’t want to see.
Or ever worse, someone who I DO want to see, but not when I’m dressed in a pair of jeans and a striped shirt that is so wrinkled from sitting at my desk that I look like I slept in it … four days ago!
But you know what they say …