About three weeks ago I very excitedly bought myself some flares. My good buddy MissionStyle tipped me off to them and when I tried on in-store I thought 'praise the freakin' lord, job done'. I deffo felt they contained my flab, were the right length and had a decent comfort factor. Tick, tick, tick. Then I shot them. And errrrrything changed. These two meagre frames were the only ones I could salvage from that disastrous SS Titanic of a shoot. And even then- let's be honest- I look horrific. Having to bin a set of a pictures is priddy heartbreaking, and I've gotta confess- the whole débacle made me wanna quit blogging (and not for the first time). I guess we've all been there. You kinda feel 'why am I bothering?', 'why am I so fat?' and 'why does every shoot I do not remotely turn out like I hoped it would?' But I thought I'd disclose these lame-ass shots anyway in order to delve a little more into the wretched thought patterns that whirl round the mind of a fashion blogger, and see if there's owt to draw from them.
I recently saw an interesting piece in Grazia about a girl who had to get therapy for her instagram 'problems'. Seriously though. She was literally driving herself insane with thoughts that all her friends were leading amaaazing lives and she wasn't. This is basically where logic leaves you and paranoia sets in. It's at times like this I like to revisit a bit of Susan Sontag. If you haven't read her, get on it.
The Girl Can't Help It
There's no getting away from it- I'm short and fat. Whilst my logical mind knows this, I still seem to harbour a very weird misguided notion that when I shoot a look somewhere along the way I will magically turn into Chiara F, Camille C or Gala G. As a blogger you are constantly faced with images of yourself and your physical shortcomings, which is unfortunately where ever decreasing circles of negativity start to fester.
I got it realllly wrong with this outfit. So so wrong. The mirror told me one thing, the camera lens another. I should've worn a shirt and a heel. Probably. And as usual my insistence on wearing a hat didn't help matters either. I used to wear flares allllll the time about five years ago. I remember wrestling a girl in Liberty to the ground for the last pair of 18th Amendment jeans (yes, them!) in a Size 25 and absolutely luvin' them. And I also recall going to Westfield (in Shepherd's Bush) the first weekend it opened wearing a Topshop pair and trotting into Donna Ida only to have the shop assistant declare undying love for my denim. (You know you're doing something right when a girl that works with £200 + jeans all day every day likes your thirty quid jobs). But I guess I was thinner then.
Should I Stay Or Should I Go?
I have to admit I hate shooting, I hate looking at pictures of myself and I hate competing. Which makes it ermmm, quite tricky to be a blogger. But I love clothes. I love them in a way I can't even express, and despite having a face like a bag of spanners and a body like a pre-gastric band patient I don't think I can jump off this kerrrrrazy rollercoaster just yet. Catch you soon (hopefully) xx
PS Don't hate the flares, hate the player
Skinny Rib- Topshop//Jeans- Topshop
Bomber- Topshop//Fedora- Catarzi//Boots- Gap