What do you do when you walk through the door at the end of the day? Change into some elegant downtime gear and a lovely starched apron before cooking a delicious and nutritious dinner for you and yours. KIDDING. Presumably you shed your public skin, take off your bra and settle into ‘home’ clothes before ordering Deliveroo. Maybe you crunch a couple of chores into the teeny, tiny gap between getting home and collapsing.
Off with the office dress. On with the… oh dear. Because I don’t know about you but my ‘and…..relax’ gear ain’t no casual chic. The clothes I put on when I get home may actually be an act of self harm. Holy hell. Ill-fitting layers; as if to compensate for a terrible foundation I layer on other differently ill-fitting things on over the top hoping that the holes do not happen in the same place and show my grey pants. Possibly (definitely) stained. Who is this human? And why is she degrading herself so?
Is a nice pair of leggings and a clean t-shirt (possibly even one that was intended for women) really beyond my ken? Do I really have to put on torn, sagging pyjama bottoms with a Gap long-sleeved man’s thing that I wouldn’t even want my mother to see me in? What is wrong with me? Why can’t I get this aspect of life together?
I don’t know. Perhaps at home I don’t want to play dress up. In my castle I don’t even want to pretend to be clean/clever/capable. And I just want to be my unvarnished self. Or maybe I am in chronic denial about stuff which renders you cute and off-duty at 22 but can make you look unhinged at 40. Like dirty hair and ripped tights.
I suppose I could throw everything out and find £200 (no I don’t know where from either but we’re still in theory stage) and chuck all the heinousness and start from scratch. But how uncosy is that? Maybe I am so overwhelmed that if I take my clean/clever/capable clothes out of the cupboard it means more washing, more folding, more dry cleaning, more things to do, more things to take care of. I mean cashmere tracksuits? Not for people who take their own rubbish out. Silk lounging pyjamas? That’s just playing house isn’t it? Please tell me it is.
This way. The ‘disgusting’ way. The ‘wear it until it actually disintegrates’ way. The ‘so worn I can’t feel it on my skin’ way. Well, it’s one less thing to think about. And that is beautiful. For me. If not for the poor Ocado man who will never be able to un-see me.