Who knew a pair of shorts could be so triggering?
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I went shopping last Thursday. It’s not my favourite activity. I like to have a few outfits that work for me, wear them again and again, and enjoy the happy consequence of not having to go to the shops that often.
It also means that my shopping habits are financially and environmentally sustainable, as I only buy the things I need and use them to death rather than giving in to “fast fashion” trends and producing unnecessary waste.
But the wearing again and again of so few items inevitably leads to my clothes fading, wearing out, starting to look shabby and eventually needing replacement. And I have to go shopping.
Refreshment cycle
And so it is that I’m currently in the middle of one of my wardrobe refreshment cycles, where I go through my stuff, filter out the “dead” items and replace them.
Once these cycles are triggered, they can be nigh on impossible to stop. I might notice that one of my sports t-shirts is terminally stinky and ripe for the bin and glance through the rest of my kit while I’m at it to see if there’s anything else I can discard.
Before I know it, things have got out of hand and I’m sitting in a pile of worn-out, washed-out clothing from all corners of my wardrobe and drawers, compiling a list of the things I need to buy the next time I work up the wherewithal to hit the shops.
And that’s how I’ve got to C&A this Thursday afternoon.
The little black shorts
Pretty soon, I’ve picked up a pair of black shorts. A neat design in black cotton mix, creased at the front with little golden buttons arranged down the front in sailor style.
I’ve had a pair like this in navy for years and they’ve been one of my most reliable go-tos in summer. I can’t believe I’ve found a similar pair now after all these years — and for a decent price too! I promptly sling them over my arm with some other pieces and go to the changing rooms to try them on.
The shorts fit. Sharply cut, they sit nicely at the waist, don’t pinch round the hips, and are long enough that they don’t ride up and spontaneously morph into hotpants when I sit down (nobody over the age of 25 should wear hotpants in public). Apart from a slight fault in the stitching around the waistline, they are perfect.
Yes, they’re coming home with me — along with a navy t-shirt with pretty lace details on the shoulders. I head towards the cashier.
What’s the issue?
Halfway over there, I realise I’m feeling a trifle uneasy about these shorts and can’t work out why. I walk back to the table where the other sizes are piled up and put my size 36 back on it. But I leave my hand on them — somehow unwilling to completely surrender them yet.
So I stand there like an utter twit with one hand on a pile of summer shorts like I’ve spontaneously fused with them and try to unravel this sudden internal mini-drama.
It’s not that I can’t afford to buy the shorts — I can. EUR 25 is not going to break the bank, even though my budget is tight this year.
I’m not taking any kind of style risks with them — I’ve been wearing shorts in this style for years and they’ve always looked good and still will.
I just can’t work out why I’m in such a quandary over these little black shorts. And, because I hate shopping and have already been in the changing rooms three times, I’m getting overstimulated and antsy. My introvert instincts are kicking in strong and I want to get out of here and back to the quiet of home.
Oh, I get it
Then I realise what the problem is and it’s not complicated at all.
I don’t want the shorts.
Even though they suit me. Even though they fit and flatter me. Even though I can afford them and they’ll last me a good few years.
The truth is: I don’t want to show my legs like that right now.
To be clear, I have quite nice legs. They are pasty white British ones which are more likely to go lobster red in the sun rather than an attractive tan — but they are compact and athletic with only a little bit of age-related sag over the knees. They are runner’s legs that have carried me through marathons and up mountains and through 40km ultra walks. For age 43, my legs are not bad at all.
But I don’t want them in shorts anymore. I want them in wide trousers and elegant midi day dresses with only my calves and ankles on display. Shorts, for now, are part of my fashion past. Who knows if they will ever return?
I leave the shorts — and a chapter of my personal fashion history — on the display table, pay for my t-shirt and head home, feeling much lighter.
Peeling off the skin
This has been happening to me quite often in the last year or two. A desire for change — mostly to leave something, someone, a certain situation or phase behind — creeps up on me unawares and crystallises in an unexpected moment, demanding resolution.
At 43, I know I am a wholly different person to the one I was even 10 years ago. It figures it’s time to do some clearing up and clearing out in life.
But rather than it feeling like a “spring clean” exercise, the whole thing puts me in mind of peeling a hard-boiled egg.
When you crack the shell, the first flakes to come away are small, insignificant and slow. Then, the protective membrane is broken, revealing the shiny white beneath. Something new and clean is there, waiting to emerge.
Finally, the last, largest flake comes away in one smooth satisfying movement. The egg lies in the palm of your hand: compact and ready.
I do often wonder whether all of these little flakes of change — an old habit kicked; shorts left in the shop, unbought — are building up to something greater.
Maybe at some point, I’ll slip free of the mould of my current life completely and start afresh?
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Related articles:
My 40th birthday – 40 thoughts upon reaching a big milestone
Confessions of an awkward woman
A list of my life failures – in no particular order
The vein on my arm and the unconscious need to be “ladylike”
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