Someone said to me the other day ‘You’re 23! These are the years!’. I looked at that person with a dubious look on my face. First off, the phrase ‘These are the years!’ has been used to reassure those in their 20’s, 30’s, 40’s…hell even 50’s! So there goes an empty statement. Secondly, without hesitation, I would say that my teens were MY years. On the tube today as I was heading towards Brick Lane, a trio of girls circa 14-15 yrs old were gushing, giggling and getting all excited about making their first trip out to Spitalfields Market ("It’s like Camden but like, so much cooler!’). In their seersucker sun dresses, vintage bags, short shorts and suitably scuffed up plimsols/old school high-tops, they were the epitome of London teendom with ‘alternative/retro’ aspirations. I had to let out a sigh when I saw them, thinking back to when I was the same age, discovering the same places as they were, thinking everything was so damn cool and actually thinking I was pretty cool in whatever fandangled get-up I was wearing.
The insecurity I had in myself as a teen somehow benefited my obsession with fashion and gave me an outlet to seek, discover and experiment. I keep on saying the ‘ripe old age of 23’ which obviously isn’t actually THAT old but somehow I’m feeling the heavy weight of all of those years as I secretly yearn for those teen years again. I haven’t seen it all, done it all yet but it does seem that where my style is concerned, now that I’ve ‘found’ what fits/suits me and what gets me ticking, there’s none of that teenage uncertainty/anxiety which I strangely crave.
This is two posts in a row where I’m sounding deranged. Blame the intense sun.
