Fits Me To A Tee.

It’s time to come clean on the fact that I actually have another clothing addiction, apart from scarves.

I am addicted to t-shirts.  This realisation came rather suddenly when I received surprise gifts of t-shirts from two different friends in the same week.  One lovely friend who had been in London sent me a shirt from Speedy’s Cafe.  I will now pause to allow the Sherlock fans to squeak with jealousy.  The other wonderful friend sent me two NCIS related t-shirts.

It made me sit and look closely at my t-shirt collection, which made me realise one thing.  All of my t-shirts have meanings and associations for me.

My friends (and family) know my loves, and encourage them with t-shirts.  This is one of the reason I love my peeps so much.  They know me, accept my foibles, and damn well enable them. 

When I looked at the t-shirts I have bought for myself, I came to the conclusion that during the summer months I am literally wearing my life experiences on my chest.  The t-shirts I have bought for myself are from places I have visited, or theatrical productions I have been too, TV shows I love etc.

I don’t wear all my shirts at once.  I have about a dozen or fifteen I wear and keep the others spare to take out when one of the ones I am wearing carks it. 

Going through my collection I noticed that I have enough t-shirts from Orange County, California to keep me going for the next ten years.  Well, the t-shirt shop at Huntington Beach was having a sale!  And who can resist a t-shirt with a picture of a kitten in a deckchair with the legend “Life’s A Beach”?  Well, not me, anyway.

Also in my to-be-worn pile is a tee from an indoor rock climbing venue in Auckland, New Zealand.  My one and only attempt at rock climbing.  It was fun.  And I will remember it every time I wear the shirt.

Another shirt is from the Australian National Maritime Museum in Sydney.  A reminder of another wonderful afternoon spent with a fantastic friend.  Oh the fun we had exploring the ships.

A look back at photo albums from my trip to the UK in 1996 show that even then I was proudly wearing my life experiences on my chest.  A t-shirt from a Billy Connolly show, one from a David Strassman one, another from a Star Trek convention.  Memories, memories, memories.  And yes, I brought back wonderful t-shirts from the UK too.

I know some people whine about t-shirts like this being free advertising for the companies and/or places involved.  I don’t care.  To me these shirts are another way of recording my life experiences.

Been there; Bought the t-shirt.  Lots of t-shirts.

Personal Style Evolution

Over the weekend I did an audit of my wardrobe after obtaining a couple of new items.  And yes, one of them was another scarf!

I tend to audit my wardrobe pretty carefully, just to make sure I am actually wearing the stuff I have.  My clothes tend to breed like rabbits.  This time I made a couple of surprising discoveries.

Firstly, I discovered that I no longer owned a single pair of sneakers or trainers.  Somewhere along the line they had been completely replaced with black boots and loafers.  I like black for footwear…it blends with everything.  I have never been particularly interested in shoes, but it was definitely interesting to discover that my subconscious had decided that scruffy sneakers were no longer part of my personal style.

My second discovery was that my subconscious appeared to be on a mission.  All my sweat shirts/sloppy joes had managed to donate themselves to opportunity shops and had been replaced with close fitting, smart sweaters/jumpers in strong, bright colours.

At least my subconscious left my hoodies alone.  I am very fond of my fire engine red Carharrt hoodie.  Mind you, it is form fitting, so maybe my subconscious actually approves of it.

I found myself wondering at exactly what point did I decide that I no longer wanted to look scruffy at weekends?  That I wanted to look smart, but still be comfortable, 7 days a week?

I came to the conclusion that it’s a form of evolution.  The evolution of personal style.  Like normal evolution, you just don’t notice it’s happening until everything has changed.  Then you find yourself looking at yourself in the mirror, admiring the close fitting jeans coupled with sweater, boots, and a pashmina tossed casually over the shoulders, thinking that you don’t look too damn bad at all.

My personal style evolution still needs a slight helping hand.  I noticed a couple of pairs of grey sweatpants lurking in the wardrobe.  These have been earmarked for the next box to the opportunity shop.  I don’t need my subconscious to tell me that they need to go.

Gimme it Down to There….Hair!

Melbourne’s public transport is on a roll.  This is two out of the three most recent blogs it’s provided inspiration for!

My tram’s ultimate destination in the morning is Melbourne University.  This tends to mean there is a fairly diverse range of people on it.  Usually at the time I travel, there are few people, and most keep to themselves, apart from the usual nods and quiet smiles of camaraderie between those who are up and about before the sparrows have dragged themselves yawning and farting out of their nests.

Occasionally there are students with early classes at the university.  These can be a trial because, frankly, they tend to express their opinions loudly and forcefully, and few people can truly be stuffed listening to it at 6.00am.  This doesn’t matter to them of course, and they continue to loudly discourse, oblivious to the dirty looks they are getting from other passengers.

This morning’s trip had two youngsters eagerly expressing their opinions to each other.  No-one else was listening.  These opinions were on the subject of women over 40 and the length of their hair.  Given that between them I doubt their age even added up to 40, I was both amused and verging on developing a severe case of the pip.

According to these young doyens of social mores, women over 40 should not wear their hair long.  It is, I quote, “not a good look”.  Oh really?  Says who?

Admittedly I do notice that a lot of women over 40 cut their hair short.  No-one told me it was a requirement of functioning in society once you reach that dangerous age.  It is also not a requirement I intend meeting.  Ever.

I wear my hair a shoulder length or slightly longer.  It’s my personal preference and no jumped up little twerp with no life experience is going to convince me to do otherwise.

Part of it is the fact that I have an oval face, strong chin, and high cheekbones.  Combine that with short hair and I look like some hard faced boarding school matron.  Which may turn on some men (those who went to English public schools perhaps), but on the whole is not an attractive look.

I grow it longer so that it falls across the sides of my face, and over my shoulders, like soft wings.  It’s gentle, it’s feminine, and it’s a bitch to look after, but I like the look and the feel of my hair framing my face.

I really don’t understand why people assume that when you reach a certain age you need to suddenly change how you look and dress.  It is mostly young people who think like this.  Either that or very few of my contemporaries are stupid enough to tell me how I should look and dress.  I’m guessing the latter is most probable.

People need to come to the realisation that the way you dress, wear your hair, the colours you wear, are all ways of expressing your personality.  Your personality doesn’t change when you turn 40 – so why should your personal style?

Admittedly my copper brown locks now have silver threads through them, but it’s still no reason to cut my hair short and act like I’ve got one foot in the grave.

Blogger Has New Clothes!

There are few pleasures like shopping for new clothes when you don’t need them.  Well, that’s not strictly true.  I did need the new winter coat.  With that in mind I withdrew $100 from my bank and went shopping.

I know, $100 isn’t much, but I went shopping at a very special place.  The local Australian Red Cross Boutique.  Excellent clothing, many designer labels, and every dollar spent goes to helping others.

I love our local Red Cross store.  I have bought a lot of great things there over the last couple of years, but this time I think I excelled myself.

On Good Friday, peering through the window, I saw a coat.  Not just any coat.  A gorgeous red wool coat with red leather trim.  For my English readers, it looked rather like a Chelsea Pensioner’s tunic.  Everyone else: google “Chelsea Pensioner”.

Three long walks, and three equally longing gazes through the window, and I knew I had to have that coat.  Two nightmares.  What if it was the wrong size, and what if someone got to it before I did?  At 10.10am Saturday morning I streaked in the door heading for the coat.  I’d lifted it from the rack when I heard a subdued snarl behind me.  Looking over my shoulder, I saw one very annoyed blonde.  Seems she’d had her eye on the coat too!

Check the label!  My size!  Not time to do the happy dance yet.  The cut may be wrong.  Race to the change rooms.  Shrug off light jacket.  Tug on the red coat.  Bliss!  Perfect fit!  Twirl around examining myself in the mirror.  Assistant comes past and grins.  Assures me the coat looks great.  Yeah.  Pretty much figured that.  Check the price tag.  Oooooo.  Not only is the coat brand new, it’s only $60.00.  NOW is the time to do the happy dance!

Five minutes I am out the door with my precious and $40 left in my purse.  Mmmm.  More clothing treats.

A visit to a local chain store netted me a new pair of black boots for $19.00.  Then to top off my clothing self indulgence: two pashminas for $18.00.  One a gorgeous purple and silver; the other sky blue and silver.  My regular readers already know of my devotion to all things scarfish:  https://margysmusings.wordpress.com/2013/03/19/confessions-of-a-scarf-addict/

All decked out for winter for less than $100.00.  It’s really not that hard to look and feel great and not spend a lot of money to do it.

Excuse me, contemplating my purchases, I feel the need to do the Happy Dance again.  Be Back Later.

Confessions of a Scarf Addict

Autumn is here in Melbourne.  I am one very happy little camper, because that means I can indulge one of my favorite addictions.  Scarves.

I have a great little collection of scarves. Well, not so little.  Actually, I have enough scarves to do the Dance of the Seven Veils several times over without using the same scarf twice.

When autumn comes and scarves appear in the shops, I feel like a cat in a catnip patch.  Stoned out of my brain and chasing invisible mice.

Scarves look good indoors and out.  Whether wrapped trailing around the throat a la Isadora Duncan, or bunched up under the chin like Sherlock, they express the wearer’s personality.  Colour, material, pattern, fringes, whatever your fancy is.

Scarf addicts are frequently misunderstood.  My sister doesn’t understand me.  The same conversation is played out many times over the autumn and into winter.  Me: Oooohhhh.  Scarves.  Sister: You have enough scarves.  Me: But it’s blue!  Sister: You have a blue scarf! Me: NOT THAT BLUE SCARF!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Only another scarf addict would understand that you can never have just one blue scarf.  Or green.  Or red.  Or purple.  You must have a variety of shades, materials, textures and patterns to suit every mood and every outfit.  It is vastly important to the scarf addict that they have the appropriate scarf for the occasion.

Acute Scarf Envy is a major problem for addicts.  This is the act of seeing someone wearing a scarf you want, but cannot subsequently find anywhere.  I suffer from acute scarf envy every time I watch Sherlock.  Both the season 1 and season 2 scarves are the objects of my desire.  I just want to tear the scarves from around Benedict’s neck and run away with them.  I also want to tear the rest of Benedict’s clothes off, but that’s for different reasons not germane to this blog. *coughs*

My envy got really acute when a friend of mine managed to find the EXACT scarf from season 1 Sherlock in the bargain bin at an expensive department store in Sydney.  However, she too, is a scarf addict, so I cannot begrudge her her find.  I only hope she lets me hold the scarf when I next visit.

Scarves provide great sensory input.  Wrapped securely around the throat, curled up under your chin like a kitten, they provide a feeling of security.  A sort of mobile security blanket.

My current delight is for pashminas.  Warm, soft, sensuous, cuddly, snuggly – the John Watson of scarves.  Which is possibly why I turn my jacket collar up a la Sherlock after putting on my scarf!

I think I need help. Lot’s of it.