Dress for the Job you want, Not the job you Have.

There is a "look" I am learning to perfect. A style, an image - call it what you want. But it's so much more than the clothes that I'm wearing. It started when my mom came to visit and I found myself (as I always do) drowning in her negativity and cynicism and I saw myself twenty years from now, just as angry, just as bitter, just as bored as she is. And that is not OK.






My new "style" is my uniform - but unlike like the English High School kid who tries everything to avoid conforming, or the bored security guard who wears his clothes to feel an over inflated sense of power, I am wearing my uniform like a Warrior; it is something I am wearing with pride.

















The first time I saw a real, alive, walking around, pin up style Rockabilly chick, I was in Sacramento with Kaleb. I didn't even know what a Victory curl was. Her eye make-up was flawless, her lips, cherry red and crisp. She had the most awesome, colorful tattoos and her black pencil skirt was shiny and tight. God, I think I fell in love, juuuust a little bit. I was no stranger to seeing classic pin-up girls as they're one of Kaleb's favorite things, but I had no idea that they existed in real life. Her smooth, shiny hair was such a deep, deep red - so red that it was almost midnight. Then she had a big, bright orange flower pinned just above her ear. She. Was. Beautiful.





In England, where I grew up, the mainstream, marketable pin up girl is the modern day, girl next door type, with blond hair, perky, slightly too large, breasts and pretty pink nipples. Her make-up is pleasant, fresh - almost natural. This chick could live down the street from you and you wouldn't recognize her with her top on. Not that she's not attractive - she's just not remarkable.

Of course, it might have something to do with the fact
that there's a pair of boobies on every other page in the majority of the newspapers. They don't exactly care about leaving anything to the imagination. There's no good old-fashioned glamor and well, after a while, you start to get a seen-one-pair-seen-em-all attitude. They're just not special enough to remember.




I don't know a woman that I've ever met who hasn't at least heard the names Marylin Monroe or Betty Paige, but how many of you are still collecting posters of Samantha Fox....? No...? Exactly.






I've always loved old style glamor. Forties and fifties Hollywood is where I always made my escape. I loved the old musicals the best but I didn't care as long as the movies were glamorous; Doris Day, Rita Hayworth, Greta Garbo, Grace Kelly and, as far as I'm concerned, beauty, elegance and grace was never better represented than by the amazing Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tffany's.......................................................................................
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............. Sorry, I just took a moment for myself to remember her perfection. Sigh.................








OK. It may seem that I have digressed a little but this really is all connected.



Here's how...






I've never considered myself particularly striking or glamorous. Definitely not beautiful But the day I got married, was the only day in my entire life that I've ever, ever, ever felt truly beautiful. I felt beautiful, because I was beautiful. On the day, it didn't matter what I was wearing, how my hair looked and if my makeup was flawless (although, fortunately all of which happened to turn out pretty freaking great!) It wasn't the usual "blushing bride" beauty that you see in most wedding pictures, it was more than that. I was so grounded and confident and happy and care free. I felt sexy and pretty and glamorous and striking, and it reflected in my outward appearance so that I looked on the outside, exactly the way I felt on the inside.



Now, when I look at my Wedding pictures, I am unrecognizable.




Of course, keeping in mind that I'm generally wiping snotty noses, changing poopy diapers or generally messing around with the kids. I'm not even trying to think about dusting the house or mopping the floor in a floaty, white frock. For one, I've gained SO much weight that my wedding dress wouldn't even go over my head these days, let alone fasten in the back and besides, it'd just make more laundry.




The style or fashions of the early glam years assured that no woman spent the day looking anything other than her absolute best. No trousers, only skirts and dresses, hair perfectly curled, just pinched pink cheeks, perfectly ruby red lips and always, always wearing shoes with heels.





Then the world went to war and the women had no choice but to go to work in jobs that demanded hard, manual labor. There was a war on. They had to do what the men used to do. They had to work the in factories and get dirty and lift things and build things to support the war. And they couldn't do that in heels.







Now, I'm not fighting a war. But I have definitely gone to battle. I am battling for my sense of self. For an identity that is either lost or has never truly been found and for that, I need my uniform.



At the end of my battle, when I have won my quest, lost the weight that constantly holds me back and keeps me down, sorted my head out and put my ghosties to bed for the very last time, I will wear a shiny black pencil skirt and seamed stockings. My hair will be longer, shiny and rolled, victory style and my confidence in myself will shine as brightly as my pretty red lipstick. My teeth will be fixed and white and I will be a non-smoker. I will become a confident, self assured, striking woman, just like the women I most admire.


But for now, I am a work in progress. I am doing some hard, manual labor and I am dressed accordingly.



Yeah, just like Rosie...