I blame online shopping. Sat behind the protection of a 13” screen, in yoga pants and no bra, everything is safe and plausible. Things you’d never pick up in real life suddenly become appealing as you scroll Instagram with one hand, and add to your ASOS basket with the other. In this blissful state I’ve checked out one too many bad choices; amongst teenage models and pithy copy, it’s easy to forget that your eighteen-year-old self is gone and another body – the one with IBS, anxiety and joint pain – sits in its place.
Approaching my thirtieth birthday, you might think I’m over exaggerating – that I’m not old enough to make such assertions, but if you’ve ever walked around a shopping mall in your boyfriend’s for-the-bin sweatshirt then you’ll know what I mean. And the moment it hits, when the penny drops that you’re officially too old for Topshop, that’s a sad day. Scrap that, it’s devastating.
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It happened quite unexpectedly. I’d had a stressful day at work and in a city when you feel lonely and at odds with yourself, what’s the best way to release? Spending money, of course. It doesn’t at all make you feel bad when you can’t afford the things you really want to buy, and can’t fit into the things you can. You know that age-old adage, ‘retail therapy’? We’ve all misunderstood its meaning.
Anyway, so there I am, middle of Oxford Street (why do we do this to ourselves?) at pedestrian rush hour. It’s aggressive from the minute you reach ground level. Meandering tourists block my path but I’m a woman on a mission, and that mission is to shop. Finally I push past the scrum congregated outside the tube station, dodge rickshaws, buses and bikes, before arriving in front of the gleaming open doors of Topshop. Like an old friend, it calls my name and invites me in – and like an old friend, it’s just as happy to stab me in the back.
As soon as I cross the threshold, it’s apparent I shouldn’t be there. I want to join ranks with the slew of agitated males that have taken up residence at the human parking lot near the exit, but it’s too late – I’m in. There’s a DJ to my left, wearing a crop top and one of those black wire chokers that were fashionable when I was thirteen – how has a trend come full circle in my lifetime? First punch to the stomach. It’s hard to concentrate when’s there’s a constant stream of unrecognizable beats streaming through your conscientiousness. Temporarily digressing, I wonder what market research is behind this and consider shoving on my headphones in protest, but with 80% of my body covered up, I already stick out.
Determined for this not to be another wasted shopping trip, I pick myself up and head down the escalator. I pick up hangers indiscriminately and entertain the idea that right here, right now – among girls at least ten years my junior – I might fashion a new look. The changing rooms are full and confident teens are prancing around the communal walkway in underwear that I later realize I’m trying on too – jean shorts and a silk vest.
As it goes, said knickers don’t look as good on a rounded bum and thick thighs, toned as mine are (shout out to yoga). Actually, I don’t know that for sure as the super low cut refused to fasten around my growing hips, in what might be a subconscious protest for still being childless. As I hand them back to the sales assistant, lying that they were too big, I wonder what occasion is applicable to a thigh-slicing cutoff? A Miley Cyrus gig is all I come up with. “Too big,” the young worker repeats, not in the slightest fooled. That’s another tick for online shopping – you fill in those return forms and nobody is any the wiser. Size twelve is always too big for me. Damn that narrow waist of mine.
Hands free, I turn on my heels and try to Google Map my way out. As I climb back up the steps to reality, I notice a girl with a fluffy lilac backpack, knee socks and the most perfect eyeliner. Oh how I long to be her again. To carelessly wash a pastel rinse through my bleached-blonde tresses without ruminating about the effect of the chemicals on my body – to possess the fearlessness that comes with youth.
I’ve always wondered how a woman’s wardrobe changes with age. Do you just wake up one day and suddenly find skinny jeans and dresses swapped for elasticated trousers and orthopedic shoes? Or is there a gradual slowing, a winding down of sartorial curiosity? It seems I’m already on the path. Hello J Crew, Equipment and Iris & Ink, for where Topshop finds a void, it leaves space for something different and just as good. Better a change than two feet in the grave, right?