Hello readers!
Here I am, after an unfortunate bout of writer's block and three mid-way abandoned posts - three pretty different subjects - including one that was about religious intolerance and freedom of expression. How I arrived here, I've no damn clue! You can blame all the ongoing sales in the city and an inordinate amount of time spent, vying for all shapes and sorts of online clothes! From planning ensembles for a happy, happy time in the offing to thinking about how I can add a much-needed twist to my drab wardobe to quietly lusting for all the Guccis and Miu Mius and Riddhi Mehras - madly spun into a covetous, orgiastic dream so surreal that it hazes away all pocket size realities. (Pocket size - how I hate that phrase.)
In the utopian state, I'd be wearing all these clothes. I'd drop Saanvi to school in Masaba shift dresses. I'd go to the mall wearing completely impractical crop tops and skirt ensembles. I'll take her for a walk wearing Ralph Lauren shirtdresses and Manolo Blahniks. I mean what the hell, I could even sleep in my Manolos; I'm sure I'd be a totally different person in them. In a fashion neverland, that mystical place without price tags, I guess, to each their own.
Undoubtedly, clothes maketh the woman. I grew up with a fashionista who was hell-bent on giving me makeovers and adding that magic touch to my awkward, oversized shirt clad existence. (In my defense, I had trouble accepting my slow-changing body.) Our favorite game was dress up. I'd try out some of her clothes and once or twice, I may have struck gold with that perfectly-fitting skirt and that figure-hugging tank. I felt my whole unsure demeanour melt away. All I had to do was pretend I was someone else and walk out with my head held high and confident.
That never happened. I never really got out of my skin to embrace myself in them. But my obsession for those seamlessly transformative clothes that make you feel new every time never ceased ever since. And when I started making my own money, it translated into endless hours in the trial room trying out different fits, different styles, walking out with them elated and handing them over at the cash counter. But then it wasn't as if I had a ton of money. I had to smart shop. I had places to shop for everyday clothes. I had others for funky clothes. And then I had some for splurges. These clothes were safely lodged in my wardrobe to be worn to work and to play, and then there were some, to never be worn at all...
More than often, I got asked, "Where did you get this blouse?" And no, it wasn't followed up with a catty remark like, "Remind me never to shop there." It was genuine appreciation! And I felt like I had to keep it up. I started web-stalking my fashion inspirations at the time. One of them was Mischa Barton from OC. For all of you, who're wondering who she is, she shot to fame with the character of Marissa Cooper from OC but then her career went spiralling down fast, while her poor stretched-to-the-limit pants took the pain of it all; to be followed by rehab and controversies. But I loved her on-duty, uniquely feminine style so she became my most influential style icon. I started hunting down cheaper mimics of her Dior-Chanel wardobe. I started trading my bad days with stilettos and Chanel-inspired dresses; some that I still own and I dare confess, have never got to see the light of day.
Clothes have always been my driving force. They've driven me to work harder, to take up better-paying jobs. Thankfully, I never really got on to the world of maxing out credit cards. I was always wary of my addiction so credit cards were completely off limits. I spent most of my salary at the beginning of the month on all my sartorial cravings and lived on a tight budget the entire month. My dad often came to my rescue and lent me cash.
Keeping up appearances was difficult underneath a crumbling mess, an uncontrollable urge to spend every rupee on a great-looking bag or a pair of boots that I saw on OC. And then I got married. I had a brand new wardrobe. My cravings took a back-seat for a few months. I didn't have many social obligations outside the family for some time and my trousseau of sarees and salwar kameezes were enough. But when we started venturing out, I'd go back to feeling insecure about the way I am lagging behind on all the street-style mise-en-scene. I started lusting for things yet again. Saving images on my phone so that I don't forget about all my coveted designs. I went back and got those designs created whenever I had a little extra cash. I started working and spending my salary on work-wear and bags and social obligations and weddings to go to. My shopping, however, was now under check because I had to justify everything in my shopping bag to my husband, who knew me all too well to let me tread down the same path again. But then once in a while, I shopped secretly. I couldn't let my old habits die such a boring death. I knew I was cheating on him but I couldn't resist the perfumey smell of a brand new dress or the clonk-clonk of new leather.
It's been four years since I got married. I have a two-year old daughter who looks up to me for every little thing. I feel the pressure of setting a shining example to her. But if you were to secretly browse through my phone even now, you'll see designer label porn in my Downloads folder. You'll see images of seductive drapes blatantly marked in scarlet on browsing through my Vogue mag rack. I don't have my own income to splurge on runway whims any more and neither do I have that sort of carefree disposition. The only Chanel I own is a half-way used perfume bottle. I shop at Forever 21 and Zara and sometimes I get my outfits tailor-made. I sleep on my Vogue and Harper's Bazaar must-haves and I find that the next day, they don't seem as pressing. I'm less prone to spending on a colour of a bag or shoe that doesn't go with most of my outfits. I can't say I have complete control over my urges and my heart skips a beat every time I walk past the Anita Dongre store or look at the words "New Arrivals" on Pernia's Pop-up. But finally, I've found that comfortable spot when I can make eye-contact with dolled-up mannequins and say, "I don't really need you in my life right now." or a dismal "Honey, I can't afford you."
And walking away for once feels pretty damn good...
Here I am, after an unfortunate bout of writer's block and three mid-way abandoned posts - three pretty different subjects - including one that was about religious intolerance and freedom of expression. How I arrived here, I've no damn clue! You can blame all the ongoing sales in the city and an inordinate amount of time spent, vying for all shapes and sorts of online clothes! From planning ensembles for a happy, happy time in the offing to thinking about how I can add a much-needed twist to my drab wardobe to quietly lusting for all the Guccis and Miu Mius and Riddhi Mehras - madly spun into a covetous, orgiastic dream so surreal that it hazes away all pocket size realities. (Pocket size - how I hate that phrase.)
In the utopian state, I'd be wearing all these clothes. I'd drop Saanvi to school in Masaba shift dresses. I'd go to the mall wearing completely impractical crop tops and skirt ensembles. I'll take her for a walk wearing Ralph Lauren shirtdresses and Manolo Blahniks. I mean what the hell, I could even sleep in my Manolos; I'm sure I'd be a totally different person in them. In a fashion neverland, that mystical place without price tags, I guess, to each their own.
Undoubtedly, clothes maketh the woman. I grew up with a fashionista who was hell-bent on giving me makeovers and adding that magic touch to my awkward, oversized shirt clad existence. (In my defense, I had trouble accepting my slow-changing body.) Our favorite game was dress up. I'd try out some of her clothes and once or twice, I may have struck gold with that perfectly-fitting skirt and that figure-hugging tank. I felt my whole unsure demeanour melt away. All I had to do was pretend I was someone else and walk out with my head held high and confident.
That never happened. I never really got out of my skin to embrace myself in them. But my obsession for those seamlessly transformative clothes that make you feel new every time never ceased ever since. And when I started making my own money, it translated into endless hours in the trial room trying out different fits, different styles, walking out with them elated and handing them over at the cash counter. But then it wasn't as if I had a ton of money. I had to smart shop. I had places to shop for everyday clothes. I had others for funky clothes. And then I had some for splurges. These clothes were safely lodged in my wardrobe to be worn to work and to play, and then there were some, to never be worn at all...
More than often, I got asked, "Where did you get this blouse?" And no, it wasn't followed up with a catty remark like, "Remind me never to shop there." It was genuine appreciation! And I felt like I had to keep it up. I started web-stalking my fashion inspirations at the time. One of them was Mischa Barton from OC. For all of you, who're wondering who she is, she shot to fame with the character of Marissa Cooper from OC but then her career went spiralling down fast, while her poor stretched-to-the-limit pants took the pain of it all; to be followed by rehab and controversies. But I loved her on-duty, uniquely feminine style so she became my most influential style icon. I started hunting down cheaper mimics of her Dior-Chanel wardobe. I started trading my bad days with stilettos and Chanel-inspired dresses; some that I still own and I dare confess, have never got to see the light of day.
 |
| Marissa Cooper in Her Prom Dress - OC |
Keeping up appearances was difficult underneath a crumbling mess, an uncontrollable urge to spend every rupee on a great-looking bag or a pair of boots that I saw on OC. And then I got married. I had a brand new wardrobe. My cravings took a back-seat for a few months. I didn't have many social obligations outside the family for some time and my trousseau of sarees and salwar kameezes were enough. But when we started venturing out, I'd go back to feeling insecure about the way I am lagging behind on all the street-style mise-en-scene. I started lusting for things yet again. Saving images on my phone so that I don't forget about all my coveted designs. I went back and got those designs created whenever I had a little extra cash. I started working and spending my salary on work-wear and bags and social obligations and weddings to go to. My shopping, however, was now under check because I had to justify everything in my shopping bag to my husband, who knew me all too well to let me tread down the same path again. But then once in a while, I shopped secretly. I couldn't let my old habits die such a boring death. I knew I was cheating on him but I couldn't resist the perfumey smell of a brand new dress or the clonk-clonk of new leather.
It's been four years since I got married. I have a two-year old daughter who looks up to me for every little thing. I feel the pressure of setting a shining example to her. But if you were to secretly browse through my phone even now, you'll see designer label porn in my Downloads folder. You'll see images of seductive drapes blatantly marked in scarlet on browsing through my Vogue mag rack. I don't have my own income to splurge on runway whims any more and neither do I have that sort of carefree disposition. The only Chanel I own is a half-way used perfume bottle. I shop at Forever 21 and Zara and sometimes I get my outfits tailor-made. I sleep on my Vogue and Harper's Bazaar must-haves and I find that the next day, they don't seem as pressing. I'm less prone to spending on a colour of a bag or shoe that doesn't go with most of my outfits. I can't say I have complete control over my urges and my heart skips a beat every time I walk past the Anita Dongre store or look at the words "New Arrivals" on Pernia's Pop-up. But finally, I've found that comfortable spot when I can make eye-contact with dolled-up mannequins and say, "I don't really need you in my life right now." or a dismal "Honey, I can't afford you."
And walking away for once feels pretty damn good...
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