Style vs. The City

But for Tuesday's update, it has now been 4 months since I last blogged.  For shame.

Starting a new job has resulted in a lot less time than I would like to scribble down random musings and inflict my views upon the world.  Boo.  I have, however, managed to collate a selection of recent thoughts regarding 'city style'.  And my lack, thereof.

Hurrah! 

"Year after year, twenty something women come to New York City in search of the two L's: Labels and Love." breathes Carrie Bradshaw's voice-over, as the camera-man homes in on a number of hatefully stylish, fresh-faced, skinny young things strutting about town.

Now NYC Manchester is not, but it's a city, and it's the one I fled to even before my early 20's.  And I can't help but reflect on the SATC lifestyle I had envisaged for myself with a questioning eye, aimed scrupulously towards Carrie Bradshaw's frankly outlandish claims.  Yes, I am aware she is fictional.

I would argue - quite strongly - that it is impossible to prioritise the mastery of labels and love whilst also trying to hold down a job and keep a relatively habitable abode in the city.   IMPOSSIBLE.

Allow me to elaborate.  Consider footwear; Carrie Bradshaw and her infernal designer trotters.  You'd be surprised just how many pairs of Manolos a heavy-footed Northern bird can work her way through per quarter.   Unless bankruptcy is this season's hot look, it's safe to say designer is out.  The cost of city living coupled with dismal inner-city wages dictate that the highest-end label I can hope to adorn is if F&F by Tesco bring out a Limited Collection.  This is despite spending most weekends trawling through town looking at clothes, trying on clothes, and on occasion, salivating unintentionally on clothes that I, most definitely, cannot afford.

And it's not just monetary issues stifling my wardrobe selection. A phrase that would previously have left me shuddering, 'comfort over fashion' is now my fail-safe shopping motto.  Much to the amusement of my peers, the most recent addition to my wardrobe is a waterproof.  This is for practicality purposes, people.  'You're wearing a mac and you're over the age of 15,' was the most flattering comment my fat-mate could muster.  She wasn't there last Thursday night as a torrential downpour struck Harbour City tram stop. The mac was.  One-nil to the mac for a solid display in the face of adverse weather conditions.  Unfortunately for me, teamed with the navy and white striped pants I'd been wearing to the office that day, the mac also ensured that I was channeling the style of a children's television presenter for the duration of my journey.  

Alas, my problems do not merely end at wardrobe selections. No no.  Hair is an issue of equal weighting.  Even a crop - a minimal cumbrance - which can be waxed to perfection inside ten minutes, is no match for the shrill Manchester gusts.  Throw in a lashing of drizzle before my back foot has even made it out of the front door and before I know it my cute little pixie crop is more Faris Badwan on an off day than the Emma Watson do I had plumped for.

Not as chic as I'd hoped.

And hair is not the only aspect of my appearance that struggles with city-living.  Walking to the office is hard on my face, too.  Before I leave the flat I swear my make-up is immaculate.  Step aside Cheryl, flawless is my middle name.  But by the time I've trudged across town to the office, said flawless finish is clinging on for dear life somewhere near the edge of my chin.

So on that note, I'll wrap it up.  I think it's fairly safe to conclude that even if, miraculously, I should prove myself to be a master of the labels, on account of the birds-nest/foundation-less combo that I reluctantly find myself sporting with such regularity, the 'love' aspect of Carrie's acclaimed city lifestyle will sadly remain bereft, trailing behind my face en route to the office.

F**k 2.4

"Nobody is forced to do [a] job and if they don't like it, they should do another one.”  The iconic Karl Lagerfeld’s careers advice hardly affords a nod to the current economic climate, but happening across this statement as a recently-unemployed graduate just a couple of months ago, I confess I felt a sort of affinity with Karl’s seemingly cavalier philosophy.

Whenever anybody asked me what I was doing at the time, my response was always met with ‘the face’.  The ‘never mind, I’m sure something will come up soon’ face.  Pained expressions and sympathetic tones in abundance.

That's alright for him to say.

I graduated from University in 2009 amid the height of the economic recession.  Before I had even sat my finals, I spent months applying for jobs regardless of industry, job title or level of responsibility.  Even with two years administrative experience (an advantage I held over most new graduates), I found the job market extremely hostile, with most applications remaining unanswered or rejected.  When eventually I was offered a modest sales support position commencing the day after my final exam, I didn’t hesitate to accept.  Shrouded in the reassuringly snug blanket of employment, I resolved to worry about the rest of my life when I got there.  The fact is that it was a full-time job with prospects.  And that’s what everybody wants, right?

For a while everything was fine, and the joyous monthly appointment universally recognised as pay day reliably delivered.  But as time rumbled monotonously on, I began to find myself wondering about certain aspirations.  Specifically, the aspirations I had possessed as a child, a teenager, and as a young woman.   The blanket that had once felt so reassuring now just felt suffocating, as I became increasingly aware of stirrings of something bearing an alarming resemblance to disappointment.   

Unfulfilled, uninspired and unconvinced that there shouldn’t be more to life, naturally I decided to give up my job, relocate to the city, and start again.  All sensibility out the window, I waved goodbye to my box factory (literally) job, and headed off in pursuit of a fresh start.

But it ain't easy, and it certainly ain't pretty.  The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that from the age of about 14, we’re almost corn-fed an ideal.  We’re ushered into careers advice seminars, interview ‘workshops’, and lest we forget the dreaded P.S.E days, which would feature regularly throughout high school, offering guidance on how to bound comfortably through the assault course of hoops laid out for us; university, career, house, marriage and children.  Preferably in that order.

2.4

I’m not suggesting we should all throw caution to the wind in the name of some terribly lightweight romantic notion of following our dreams.  I think that most of us can safely acknowledge that that simply isn’t how life works.  There are only so many Adele's in the world, and if you ain't got it now you're never gonna, sister.  One of the most inspiring women I know lives for her family.  She’s worked the same job for over three decades, Monday to Friday, nine until five.  And that suits her just fine thank-you, because her success story is the family that she has devoted her life to building, and that she is proud to call her own.

I just can’t help feeling as though the unwritten framework is rather too clinical to recognise that people develop and respond to different motivating factors in life, whether that be money, family, stability, creativity, or something else entirely. 

My point is this: if you care enough about achieving something, and it’s financially viable to try (no matter how many months beans on toast feature as the tea-time staple), then don’t you owe it to yourself to at least give it a go? What’s wrong with wanting a coveted career and being prepared to work for it, sometimes for very little in the way of recompense, and sometimes for none at all?  If it means that in five years, ten years, or even twenty years I’ll be doing something that I believe is truly worthwhile and that inspires me to produce the best work I can, surely that’s worth more than sacrificing precious time to a half-hearted 9-5 slog in the name of exalting others’ expectations.  No?