Day 12 and 13 Thinking about two types of girl....

Today was a day for thinking. Someone said something that stopped me and made me consider what it is that drives fashion, or to be more specific, style. There are two types of fashionable girl (or person if we insist on being PC) , those who love fashion because it helps them to blend in and those who are passionate about standing out.

Day 12, bit tired post weekend fun

For some people fashion is about getting dressed up. Standing out from the crowd and making statements about their personalities which allow others to understand that they are different from those around them. The others use style as a way of fitting in, they aren't directional in their choices but choose mainstream fashion as a way to fit in, to identify themselves with those around them. They are fashionable, classic and groomed but do not wish their style choices to emphasise a point of difference.

It strikes me that this is something of a poetic irony that clothes can unite individuals despite vastly differing personal agenda's. The underlying wonder of style is in fact it's flexibility. We are in a way a blank canvas each morning, as we stretch out respective limbs, rub our eyes and prepare to face the day, we all make our own separate decisions as to how we wish to present ourselves to the world. We paint a picture of our personality with clothes and we showcase ourselves accordingly.

Those personalities are defined to those we meet not only by the clothes we put on our backs each day but by the way we construct our outfits. A girl who dresses in classic shapes, dark colours and a pair of sharp shoes is, I argue highly likely to be organised than I with my multitude of bangles and excessive scarf collection. Personally I am of the stand out camp of dressing, yet not to the extent that people would stop and stare at me in the street. See below for an example of said understated behaviour! My quest is to make an statement of individuality, to express my somewhat eccentric personality without appearing odd to the point of 'different'. I have an overwhelming admiration for those able to execute individuality in it's true sense, the Agyness Deyns, Katy Perrys and Lady Gaga's of our popular culture truly  deliver us a sense of themselves without the need to utter a word.

Day 13...standing out, moi? Nah

But are these women really non conformists? They still wear the work of designers, they in fact buy into the style ideal in it's purest sense as a mechanism by which we detail ourselves to those who watch. Is the fact that these girls potray their personalities with such conviction a non conformist action or in fact is this conforming in its most pure sense? Its an interesting thought that in fact those who don't conform are those who still step out in velour Juicy Couture (heaven forbid). Those who are the least conformist are those who genuinely don't  care about fashion, or style....gulp. They are women who would not find my challenge a challenge and who probably think I am a vacuous wench for even bothering to try. In a way it is laudable that they have the self confidence to abstract themselves from the crutch that fashion provides us with, but personally I am proud to have thrown out all Fruits of the Loom sweaters post 1995.

This leads me to conclude that in fact conforming is an excellent life choice, one in which I am not only comfortable but proud. Hurrah for conforming to the cultural imperative to express oneself through fashion and heaven help me whilst I keep up with it over the next year.

Days 7-11 following a serious lack of connectivity

Firstly, apologies that I have been so tardy in my blogging this week. It has been more than a little action packed and wifi connections have been few and far between. Whilst I accept that not having shared my experiences for almost a week is pretty rubbish for a blog which is only 3 weeks old, I am sad to think that some people (you know who you are) thought this absenteeism was due to failure. Those who know me surely know I am nothing if not stubborn and that I will not fail.

And so to the week. It has passed as mentioned in a blur of activity. Tuesday was stresstastic and, embarassingly the day after blogging about increasing levels of photo fear, I failed to have my photo taken (oopsy). However I quickly regained control of myself and have had a photo taken everyday since.

Thursday was quite a day and saw the first serious challenge to my task. Following a day with clients, I and the team got ready for sports day. One may imagine this to be a charming affair but lest the summer breezze carried more than a whiff of competition as the sporting event of the year whipped up a frenzy in the office. All of a sudden I and my colleagues were presented with....team outfits. Ermmmmm panic ensued as I considered (fleetingly) explaining why I couldn't wear a leopard print stetson and team t-shirt. This was quickly evicted from my conscious mind on a number of counts;

1. Career suicide
2. There was a best dressed team award and I do not like to lose.
3. Everyone needs a leopard print stetson in their life....don't they?

NB we did win best dressed but despite multidisciplinary champion Denise Lewis issuing Olympian advice on the quality of the 3 legged race knot I had tied, we came last in our actual event.

And so the vault was born. An legendary place in which all items of clothing accidentally acquired between now and the 1st July 2011 will be stowed. Currently this vault is the boot of my Rich's car although I will soon be forced to consider a more permanent residence for treasured yet forbidden items when said stetson is retrieved. Although this was not a problem that I had considered in the settting up of Hanger Strike, it strikes me that this may be a relatively common debacle. Only yesterday I was forced to shun Company magazine for offering me a free t-shirt with my purchase......hmph.

Day 8: I have no idea why I look so alarmed.

The best dressed team at sports day.

In the hive of activity which was the weekend I ventured no where near a shop, a veritable victory for Hanger Strike and, interestingly, my challenge was relegated to the back of my mind during indulgence in super amounts of fun in the lovely town of Cheltenham.

Day 9...extraordinarily excited about the weekend ahead, celebrating in my granny cardi from the ever faithful M&S.

Day 10: A beer festival in the loverly Cheltenham, Topshop maxi, some heart sunnies and my fave partner in crime....AWESOME

This is my official Day 10 picture courtesy of the loverly Square Jim! What a marvellous chap!

Day 11: A BBQ on a hill Abercrombie shorts and the perfection of my frisbee technique....not a shopping related thought in sight.

So there we have it, a week of fun. But fear not, as the weekend wound on, wifi free, I did not cease my relentless clothes related ponderings. Spending the weekend in a different city is never fails to fascinate, only 119 miles away (according to my trusty TomTom) yet a million miles away from Manchester in the fashion stakes. The North South divide exists not only in culture but also in style. That is not to say that one is superior to the other, but it is astounding how such a small distance can give rise to such a vast chasm of ideals.

The North, a land plagued by a distinct lack of reliable sunshine, is an area in which fake tan and the sun bed reigns supreme. My lack of tan, or general lack of pigmentation is the foundation of many a firm stare when I dare step out bare legged. Down in the South, the sun is plentiful and the tans are light but real.

Similarly, the styles of the towns are as different as the retail outlets of their streets. Manchester is filled with high fashion, glitter and LBD's galore, the Nam on the flip side sports an array of high end casual retailers. Jack Wills takes centre stage alongside Joules and Cath Kidston as leggy young girls sport natural tans in shorts and gilets. If one transplanted oneself to the streets of Manchester you would find similar groups of girls, looking similarly stylish yet diametrically opposed in harem pants and glads with a smattering of well placed maxi's and considerably more bangles.

How strange that it may be possible to successfully guess at an individual's hometown merely from the style choices that she makes. I am tempted to hypothesise that we are subtlely displaying not just our personality but our origins within the choices that we make. I wonder if I could do a science experiment about that!!! Ooh how exciting

Day 5 & 6 and the beginning of photo fatigue

Today I have been thinking in more detail about the task at hand and have come to an unforeseen conclusion . I think I find having my photo taken daily in my chosen outfit considerably more stressful as a concept than not buying clothes for a year. The reality of this has dawned upon me over the course of the last five days as I find myself using complex diversionary tactics to put off the inevitable event.

Of course these diversions do nothing but extend my nervousness for protracted periods at the same time giving the morning's delightfully applied makeup a chance to migrate down, or in fact off my face. So today, as I bounced about asking people to take my photo and then making up ridiculous reasons to 'just do it later', I got to wondering why this may be. The reasons for this I suspect are multiple;

1. By taking a photo of what I am wearing I allow myself to be abstracted from the outfit and see it as I would the 'streetstyle' pages of many a highstreet magazine. As a dedicated critic, sometime cynic and occasional bitch I fear that one day I may have my photo taken only to upload computer and think....'Sweet Jesus did that girl get dressed in the dark?'.  The thought is almost to painful to entertain.
2. I have already spent five days mortally concerned that the above comedic situation is almost certain to become a reality at some point. I am also afeared that if this does happen, I am then obliged to load said heinous fashion crime onto this blog for the delectation of the masses. Would it be cheating to omit an entry? Would I be dishonest to pretend a whole day of Hanger Strike just didn't happen? Its a lot to think about and a conundrum I have yet to solve.
3. Finally, and this is what causes me the most stress. Everyday I have my photo taken in flats I am forced to acknowledge that I have the shortest legs in Christendom. I mean for heavens sakes, this is NOT fair. I have long known I am almost hobbit like in proportion, however I struggle to understand why I would have consigned myself to an entire year of being gently reminded of this sad fact.

I think what this boils down to is the issue of comparison. If we are honest with ourselves (I mean REALLY honest), we like to compare favourably. Women are subconsciously programmed to want to look not just nice but better. Better than we did yesterday, better than the girl beside us. Not, I repeat NOT to showcase legs shorter than the average ant.

By having my photo taken everyday I am forced to face up, not to how I look in my mind but to how I really look, how other people see me day, by day, by day. To judge myself by the standards I set for those on the pages of fashion magazines, short legs and all. I don't really like sitting on the other side of that make believe fence, I don't like the vulnerability that I feel as my own take on fashion is thrown into sharp relief. That sets me thinking on why we have set these standards for ourselves and what they are actually based upon. But I think that is for another day.

As some light relief, here is what I wore on days 5 & 6;

Day 5. A little bit of a funny day weather wise but my favourite T-shirt brightened things up.

Day 6: chilled out and dressed down, short legs and all

Day 4: lazy Sundays and guilty friends

Mainly I had hoped to manage my fashion cold turkey by living vicariously through others. Shopping with my friends rather than for myself, and accompanying them on their multiple expeditions over the course of the year was how I was going to cope, how I planned to get through the dark, cold months without collapsing in a heap of deprived,  sad grumpiness. Other people's shopping was not something that I was aiming to detach myself from, far from it, I hoped to enjoy it, to revel in the delight of a new frock as much as they did themselves.

Unfortunately, such is the horror at what I am doing to myself, my friends seem unable to share their shopping experiences with me without being afflicted by some form of guilt. I can only imagine they view what I am doing as some warped form of self harm and as a result feel they must keep their quite normal weekend shopping activities as far from my consciousness as possible. Just as it is impolite to eat hugenormous slices of chocolate cake in front of someone on a diet, it is deemed inappropriate to talk about the wanton consumption of fashion in front of me.

This is a NIGHTMARE and these delightfully honourable intentions must be swiftly nipped in the bud if I am to cope with my year of self imposed, self harm.

Despite the potential personal distress that this could result in, the very fact that the reactions of those around me are so extreme is surely testament to the depth with which shopping has infiltrated our culture. Shopping, or maybe the ability to express oneself through fashion is tantamount to a rite of passage in 21st century Britain. I expect many, if not most young women can easily remember what they wore at key moments in their lives. I can remember where most of those clothes came from, when I bought them and how much they cost (is that weird?). Nevertheless, clothes in some way define the life I have led, the twists and turns of my extraordinarily twisty path.

Maybe what is the most alluring about buying new things is the possibility of almost infinite reinvention. Shops like Primani allow us to redefine ourselves on almost a weekly basis, maybe in a way that has not been possible for generations before us. In this culture of rapid change, the concept of remaining the same for any period of time appears truly terrifiying. My voluntary removal of myself from the highstreet, my abstinence from the opportunity to reinvent apparently strikes fear into the hearts of even the most cool, calm and collected ladies I know. Maybe thats because there is a perception that I have relinquished some of the control that we have come to take for granted?

Only time will tell how it will really affect the way I feel about myself, after all I have yet to run out of new clothes to wear. This Sunday evening saw me sporting a new maxi as we listened to the not particularly dulcet tones of those partaking in an open mic evening over a glass or two of pink wine. I had hoped to wear my new flip flops but it seems I am in desparate need of practice prior to wearing them outside of the confines of my home;

Day 3: loss aversion kicks in

Its true what they say, one wants the things one cannot have. If you are on a diet, you inevitably crave pizza, chocolate and in my case fondant fancies, busy people crave time to stay still and bored people crave  a busy life. The poor believe that the world would be an infinitely better place if they were rich beyond their wildest dreams, despite a strong body of evidence suggesting excessive quantities of money are a one way ticket to rehab. And so it is that I find myself, one week after a shopping trip of mammoth proportions, with clothes in my wardrobe that I have yet to wear, worrying about not being allowed to shop.

Now I don't actually really want to go shopping, in fact I'm not sure I could afford to if I wanted to, but nevertheless, the fact that I have lost the option to shop is playing upon my mind. The learned scholars of the day describe what I am suffering from as loss aversion. The fear of losing something is, apparently, much stronger than the delightful feeling of gain. I struggle to determine whether this means that my sadness at not being able to shop outweighs the delight of purchasing a new item, however, if this is the case then I quake in fear of what the next year may hold for me.

Despite my increasing feelings of trepidation that I may have bitten off more than I bargained for, I do feel, for girls at least that shopping has come to represent far, far more than a mere purchase of a necessary item. The complexity of reasoning we apply to the shopping that we do and the 'savings' that we make along the way are quite incredible. Unfathomable in fact was the word used over dinner the other day. I hope to a certain extent to unravel the unfathomable along the course of this blog, to lay bare the reasons that we act as we do. In the meantime here is what I wore yesterday;

A pair of hollister jeans accompanied by a top I found in the inventory.

I would apologise for the half eaten curry in the corner of the picture, but I argue that it grounds the picture in the reality of the evening. Laura, Debbie and I found ourselves with no enthusiasm for the night aehad following an excellent takeout and whiled away our evening on the sofa watching Carrie and co in SATC series four. ACES. Sometimes the best Saturday nights are spent in with friends.

Day 2 and a shoe casualty later

Day two went largely undramatically, at least that's what I am endeavouring to tell myself in order that I don't have a meltdown.

The day started like many others, in panic at the lack of suitable items in my extensive wardrobe. Following the completion of my exhaustive, and arguably lengthy inventory I now recognise this as fallacy rather than fact. Opting finally for a pair of khaki shorts courtesy of 'the last shop' I got to work at 7am and was swept into a day of presentations. It seems that this sort of day may be a boon over the coming year as it represents a marvellous diversion of attention from the fears that are faced by a girl with no prospect of retail therapy.

As the working day drew to a close, the tell tale, spine tingling sound of metal on pavement, the sound that tells a girl that the heel has come off her shoe rang out across the work carpark. Now, on any normal day, this is a relatively stressful occurence, let alone the second day of a year of frugality. Whilst I can of course have my shoes reheeled it did start me thinking. Back before consumerism engulfed our very beings, one would have been more  careful to ensure that more attention were paid to the care of belongings. Just because we can buy new things, it seems our we have forgotten that broken is not necessarily the end. Just because an item has a little ailment doesn't send it winging it's way to landfill.

Yes, if my shoes were Jimmy Choo or Manolo I would have exercised levels of care akin to that enjoyed by the Queen's corgis. Yet, for my beloved yet bargaineous M&S shooboots, I just didnt pay any attention, in the subconscious knowledge that they could easily be replaced. Why, and when I wonder did we completely forget that worth has little to do with value?

As I am sure you can imagine, such depth of thought forced me out to the pub to continue my musings over a glass of pink wine....

Day 1: deep breath and I'm off

It's the end of Day 1 and so far so good. I have had a mere four shopping related thoughts and as of yet no panic attacks.

I admit that buying Look magazine on the way home from work was probably not the most sensible idea, but once I remembered that there was little point in looking for where Chezza procured her gorgeous anchor jumper from, I relaxed into the celeb gossip with little thought.

Overly ambitious as per usual, I had hoped to put together a marvellously thought through outfit for my first foray into the 'no-shop zone'. Sadly my hideous lack of forward thinking struck again and I found myself sitting bolt upright on the eve of the 29th June, in bed, two days out, remembering not only that I was leaving for two days in London in the morning but that I had not actually considered that I have no tights.

Thus it was that tights, rather than my first outfit consumed my thoughts as I packed my bag the next morning. I mean for heavens sakes, how could I have forgotten to purchase such a basic item as part of the preparation period? The journey to London passed by in a haze of complex maths, how often do I wear tights? How many wears per pair? How many pairs did I therefore need and where on God's Earth could I get tights between yesterday and today with not a shop in sight? And now my friends, we must all hail the wonder that is the mobile world wide web, or really Steve Jobs and his revolutionary i-phone. He may have the worst temper in Silicone Valley, but yesterday he saved my life.

Sat on the bank of Dorney Lake, watching Adam and Chris locked in an excessively athletic, triathlon based battle, I shopped at M&S online for a multitude of tights,  pairs of stockings and (on impulse) a pair of legwarmers. Oh the wonders of life in 2010. Granted I failed to fulfil my duties as chief cheerleader but this role rather paled into insignificance when I considered the very real prospect of a winter in the North of England with only 3 pairs of black opaques. A thought so heinous I would not wish it upon anyone.

Crisis averted, I turned my attention this morning to The Outfit. Due to aforementioned crisis it wasn't very exciting but I went for simple, grey jersey dress, little black cropped tux jacket, and my most favourite shoes EVER.

Tomorrow I will endeavour to do better on the outfit front. Aside from that tonight I will mostly be wondering how on earth a potential lack of tights could possibly have had such a profound effect on my inner calm.