Despite being very competent at spending money in my teens, as I’ve got older, I’ve gotten much worse at buying things for me.
Sure we go on holiday, and we’re paying for our wedding, but there’s bills and rent and groceries and vet bills and health insurance and the car, and it when spending money is so mundane, it’s hard to find joy in spending for fun.
And really hard not to feel guilty about it.
With Summer turning in to Autumn, and my beloved Barbour in the UK still, I need a winter coat. There’s only so many winters I can go wearing twelve jumpers and a gilet before I have to admit defeat, and while it might surprise you, it gets cold in Melbourne.
So we went out in search of a winter coat for me, and naturally I couldn’t help but browse the relatively guilt free ‘sale’ sections
I happened upon a blue dress I’d had my eye on for a while.
My size, and 70% off, so naturally I wanted to try it on.
Like most women, trying on clothes is an emotional rollercoaster, and usually winds up with me criticising myself for 15 minutes in front of a different mirror rather than feeling the clothes.
I tried the dress on, and started my usual routine.
As I pulled my arms up to adjust my hair, the small press stud across the bosom popped open quite spectacularly. I giggled to myself: boobs have always been a problem, and it might prove to be an amusing party trick.
But as I wrestled my chest back in to the dress, that familiar feeling of ‘being fat’ started to creep over me.
I don’t know why I’m struggling so much at the moment with my self image, but trying on clothes is an especially miserable experience of late.
I slumped out of the dressing room to show Zac and gave him a twirl.
He had a huge smile on his face:
“Babe, I love it! I think it looks great.”
I smoothed the material over my stomach and turned back around to show him the press stud party trick when he follows up his original statement with…
“And anyway, don’t worry because you’re cutting, babe. You’ll have lost weight by the time you’re really wearing it.”