Dear Summer,
Oh, summer! Dear bright, sunshiny summer; I write this from a place of love. I love you. I really do. But you’ve got to stop. You’ve forced me to cut the sleeves of my tops and the legs off of everything. I thank god for my life as a consultant (read: freelancer; slave for part-time hire) which allows me to live in Jockey ganjis and Spongebob SquarePants boxers. The idea of getting ready in my best to travel in sweltering heat and work in an AC office, where the effect of the AC has been killed by every square foot being occupied by creatures of the human variety, causes me what-if anxiety attacks.
I know I sound privileged. I know there are people tagging this to #firstworldproblems as we speak but it is a problem and if I won’t tell you, who will?
I know I shouldn’t put this all on you. But you’re killing me with your sartorial demands. Like no black in summer. What will I, a worshipper of all clothes black, do in these months of pastels and floral prints?
A date once questioned my sanity when I showed up in a black dress in the middle of the afternoon. In my head, I questioned his right to be. Then there’s the look I get when I meet people for brunch in full-length trousers in dark colours, and let’s not forget the unending questions; “But aren’t you hot? Don’t you wear shorts? Don’t you think you should leave black for the winters?” I know their questions stem from care and concern but summer, what about you? Why won’t you make it all acceptable? If you would just tone it down a dial, my love for outfits of the noir variety would be completely acceptable.
And if that isn’t enough, there’s the sweat patch on my clothes. It’s like I dipped myself in an expired, stench-filled version of rose water. I could choose to wear less, but that wouldn’t stop me from sweating, would it? And let’s be honest, it’s not like I can actually walk into a client meeting wearing a noodle-strap cami and a pair of office-ready shorts (whatever those are).
Summer, women may wax eloquent about the pleasure of wearing dresses and skirts, but what we don’t say says more (think the pain of waxing). Don’t be fooled by editorial spreads which make thigh gap aspirational. We’re all in the running for transforming into mermaids. And as much as we love those cuter-than-unicorn bikinis, they will be as real for us as those mythical beasts.
The heat has got to me. I can’t think. I can’t read. My eyes glaze over when I stand in front of my cupboard. I get it, I do. You aren’t doing anything. I’m the one setting the rules, rolling the dice, playing the game. While you’re just being you. So maybe it’s not you; maybe it’s me. But one thing is clear. Summer, you’re killing me.
Note: This writer is currently suffering from a self-caused fashion withdrawal of sorts. Summer has robbed her abilities to think about all-things style with her usual clarity, and her writing now comprises completely of rants.
- Shirt Skirt Dress - September 1, 2017
- Dangling Dungarees - August 31, 2017
- Suited Pastel-y - August 30, 2017
