I am very influenced by my environment. It reveals a great deal about my personality. In work, my desk is quintessential organised chaos – a cursory look at my space reveals 3 cups, twice as many tea stains, hand cream, plasters, a mousetrap, important files, mildly important files and definitely-not-a-priority files, leftover Christmas decorations, jewellery I have to remove in order to type, and lots and lots of elastic bands (my top MacGyver office-essential). My car is a similar repository of equally important and completely unimportant things – croquet sticks, wellies, payslips, post-it notes, nail varnish (I like to multi-task). However, I have always believed that the state of my bedroom is the truest reflection of the state of my mind. Or to be more accurate, the state of my wardrobe is directly correlated to my wellbeing, sartorial or otherwise.
With regard to the organisation of my clothing, I have become a big fan of the fling-in-the-general-direction-of-the-wardrobe. This is one step away from the fling-everything-into-‘neat’-pile-on-the-floor, but a million miles away from the hallowed organisation system of trend-colour-price range-wearability that I strive for in my day-to-day wardrobe existence. When I have my clothes organised in this superior system (it goes a little somethin’ like this: t-shirts, jeggings, jeans, dressy tops, casual tops, black items, colourful items, shorts, short skirts, mid-length skirts, work skirts, fun skirts, sexy dresses, trendy dresses andonandonandon) I feel on top of the world. No mountain too high, no river too deep as the wise 2-Unlimited once said. Last-minute dinner invite? I’ll just grab these harem pants with this ruffle shirt, those KG brogue platforms and bam! Good to go. Night on the tear? The black sexy dress with this leather biker jacket and the grey suede ankle-boots. Bring it on.
However, this wardrobe utopia happens approximately 4 times a year. The remainder of the time, it is in a state of permanent distress; gym clobber thrown atop of expensive shoes, clean and dirty clothes nestled together in blissful ignorance, tights hanging from shelves like forgotten party streamers. I’m too busy/too tired/too lazy to sort the damned thing out. Piecing something together is like wandering around Labyrinthe blindfold. Nip to the shops? Tracksuit bottoms, gladiator sandals, snood and checked shirt. Eh? Lunch in the pub? Shirt-dress, bumbag, white converse, cocktail ring. What? It’s a complete random lottery and the outfit permutations are endless. This then corrodes my sense of self. I don’t know my right from my left, my up from my down, my in from my out. I walk around in a fug of confusion and inexplicable anxiety. I become forgetful and absent-minded, flaky and confused. And all this because my dresses aren’t hung in order. It’s so hard being a woman.