Admission: Today I wore high heeled clogs to work. And no, I do not seductively yodel for a living.
I didn’t even realise the error of my ways until I stopped in to the local 4square to get some milk and caught sight of them in the reflective mirror. What the hell Bern? At what point did you think that this was OK? What kind of drugs did you ingest before you purchased them not more than 2 months ago? Bloody good ones, that’s what kind.
And hey, it’s not like it’s my first fashion faux pas. I’m one of those people who never gets it quite right. One step behind or one step too far in front. Like the time I wanted a Choose Life T-Shirt but Mum thought one that said YES in fluorescent yellow would be far more pimping. Or my cheesecloth era. I was heavily into the cheesecloth skirt and matching bralette. That I wore out. Into Surfers Paradise. Not only did Mum condone this, she freaking well whipped it up on the sewing machine for me!
Nikki here at Styling You awarded me a Stylish Blogger award. I figured I must have led her in the wrong direction at some point and, clearly never having met me in real life, I thought I best give her the heads up about my fashion history.
I think I can pin point when it started. Pre-school
|The Year is 1980. I'm the one in the blue dress in the back row with the punctured eyeball.|
So you can see, I clearly had a few issues. Not only did I black out the eyes of the kids I wanted to take down, I stabbed out my own eye. See the boy on the right with the boots? Yeah, I dug him.
Then came school. I was just never going to be popular when I looked like this:
|Grade 1. Complete with Cowlick|
Could my pants be any higher?? Could I look anymore like a guy? Could my shoes be any more colour co-ordinated? The answer to all three is no.
|My brother and his camelscroe. Greg Chappell was worth it.|
So this probably highlights our dual pain. My brother was a massive cricket fan, hence the Greg Chappell shirt tucked into the highest stubbies on earth resulting in the indecent camelscroe (camel toe x scrotum). I was just his prop in this photo. Why do parents make siblings stand in creepy poses such as this?
Yeah. I actually do know these people. Very well in fact. Clearly I just wanted to get in on the action and thought I might just photobomb from on high. The lunatic with the daggy hair and pink tartan jumper was a fabulous guest.
But up until here, I could at least blame my mother. I didn't buy my clothes. From here on in though, there is no one to blame but myself.
I was going to a Melbourne Cup Function. Let's just say I failed to win Fashions on the Field. What the fuck Bern.
|I'm the hawt one blocking the poor girl out in the background with my gigantic hair.|
This was my year 12 formal. My dress was purple velvet. It was short. It had silver piping and it had velvet gloves. And a silver choker. I do believe this photo was taken in the toilet cubicles and that is the dance teacher in the middle who didn't particularly like me because I wouldn't wear a unitard for her.
And this was our last public Work Christmas Party. The Crap decisions just keep on coming.
Today though, when I arrived home, I found this waiting for me on the kitchen table:
No, not a hot chick with massive boobs, the bra! It's called the miracle bra and apparently it's going to save me $10,000 and painful surgery. Perhaps this is my new era, a stylish one.
Thanks Nikki, I've had fun reminiscing about my truly daggy childhood.
Now is when I am supposed to pass on the award, but I am really crap at doing this. Instead, feel free to take the idea over to your own blog.