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As I sit here and write this, I'm already doubtful as to how realistic my resolution is. I should give it up. I could give it up. But I don't actually want to give up my dirty ‘ol habit. It's hugged me in a warm embrace over the years; shielded me from the cold, buffered me from judgement, swaddled me in love.
What is this grubby little fashion faux pas? Why it's the Tracksuit my dear friends - that heinous, arch-nemesis of fashion. That slovenly ying to the well-groomed yang of fashion.
I love every kind of tracksuit; I’m not fussy. Zip ups, hoodies, feiffer pants (fat heiffer - for those ‘dirty chicken baguette and a packet of Monster Munch’ days), oversized tee's etcetc. And I'm not talking gym gear - oh no - I have pristine, aero-dynamic, streamlined gym gear that has a very distinct identity and a separate shelf in the wardrobe. Nope, my dressed-down look is messy, mis-matched and maddening to my fashionable alter-ego. Sometimes I like to perceive it as 'street' and 'hip', but deep down I know I'm closer to the Cat Lady from the Simpsons or Vicky Pollard (my nickname in the office during these periods is 'Spare Change?')
Why do I embrace this seemingly slovenly look? Because I am a woman of two halves, of diverging principal, of competing agendas. Basically I'm an either/ or kinda gal. I'm either in powerhouse, full-frontal fashion mode: replete with my dangerously architectural Finsk wedges, my Marcus Lupfer printed t-shirts, my leather hotpants, my Moshino belt – (no place for practicality in this fashion offensive,) - or I'm lounging around in my striped trackies, flouro t-shirts and men's baseball caps. My heels lift me up (hnar hnar) my hoodies keep me grounded. Sometimes I just need a break from it all. To step away from the maddening crown and the hustle and bustle of the fashion industry… the only way for me to check out is by wearing my joggers. And at the end of the day, if Alexander Wang, Ashish and Stella McCartney all got on board, the trackie look can’t be too much of a bad thing?