The Shopping Itch

I haven't bought any clothes since january and boy am I dying to scratch a hard-core shopping itch. Ever since my mother uttered the magic formula 'clothing budget', I have been buying clothes on a monthly basis. Actually, shopping has become quite the habit, and - unfortunately - not always a healthy one. After recently reading an article on habit formation (scary stuff, by the way), I decided to try out one something the author mentioned: curbing a habit by identifying routines, cues and rewards. Because when I look at my wardrobe, I see plenty of clothes, and yet I feel like I really REALLY need some new ones. Why? So in an attempt to save some money, I made a list of five cues that made me want to go out and shop over the past weeks:

Ah, such a classic. I can't speak for you guys, but I found that when I feel this way, it usually means that I'm just not inspired enough to wear my old clothes in a new way. Salvation lies in searching the internet for inspiration considering remixing, searching the back of my closet for clothes I forgot even existed, getting in front of a big mirror and trying to come up with something new. A grown up version of playing dress-up with Barbie. Only I find it quite easy to stand without toppling over and my dream house isn't made of pink plastic.

When I want a new dress for some or other special occasion, all I secretly want is to spend a lot of money on something absolutely impractical never to be worn again afterwards. Preferably with dry-cleaning instructions. Because obviously a new dress means a new, magnificent me! When really, it would be a lot more resourceful to just wear an old dress and simply accessorize it in a cool, new way. Wouldn't it be cool if our heads could split open, Zeus/Athena-style, and have Anna dello Russo pop out of them, here to cater to our every accessorizing need?

Now this is when clothes literally start speaking directly to me. As in: "You should totally buy me right now without regards to budget or actual needs because tomorrow I'll be gone with the wind. Or, you know, another woman. Gone I tell you!" The best counter-attack to this illusion is making a mental list of all the items you bought on sale and never really wore afterwards. It's a lot easier to say no once you realise that there's still plenty of fish in the sea, even when this one gets away. Albeit not as effective as taking a good, hard look at your bank statements.

Chances are that when I'm thinking this, I a) forgot to take a good look in the mirror this morning or b) neglected the weather report and am consequently freezing/melting. I was feeling pretty good about an outfit recently, until I got to the bus station and realised my hemline was MUCH too high to be worn with flesh coloured hosiery and heels. You see, the mirror I used that morning doesn't even show my knees, which led me to drastically underestimate the effect of my bare legs. My uncomfortable feeling only increased when I had to walk by a construction crew on a break. By the time I realised I would have to spend a big chunk of my day in a neighbourhood with a lot of working girls on street corners (I'm not talking your regular nine-to-fivers here), I was seriously considering hopping into the nearest mall during my lunch break and buying a new dress altogether. Luckely, my genius friend Sarah suggested simply buying a pair of coloured stockings. Less costly, but I could have saved myself the effort just by looking in a full-length mirror before leaving the house. (And if you're wondering, yes, the whistles were downright deafening. First day of spring and all.)

Confession: I have plenty of clothes that fit me perfectly well. It's just that most of them are lying on the floor, waiting to be handwashed or taken to the dry cleaner's. The solution here is really nothing more than me getting off my lethargic ass. No more laundry slacking!

To conclude: I am definitely a victim of the 'new' mirage. When I want something new, I'm secretly hoping that this new item will suddenly uplift my closet or sense of style. Things will get even better, if only I had that dress / those shoes / that top. When all I really need is a head-to-toe mirror, time, inspiration and creativity. And a decent washing machine. So if you'll excuse me now - I've got some laundry to do.

Cliché Tuesday: Nude is not a bloody colour

I never thought about this before I read through the comments of an article considering skin colours in The Hunger Games, but I wonder: in Africa, does the term 'nude', when used for clothes, refer to darker skin shades?

Isn't it strange that the fashion world uses the word 'nude' for a colour? Nude isn't a colour. It's a characteristic in itself completely unrelated to skin colour. (Although I do admit, I look totally nekkid when dressed in light beiges and creams and whatnot.) Not only is using nude as an adjective for clothes a paradox (it means 'no clothes', you fashion scallywags!), it is also - dare I say it? - kind of racist.

I'm not saying all fashion editors writing about nude being the new black or whatever are racists. But they are projecting a certain ideal by doing so. Let's turn it into mathematics.

Nude = white skin
Nude = fashionable
The aspirational skin colour of fashionable girls = ?

Just sayin'. I'm always the last one to find things out and I'm probably way behind on this, judging by the date of this excellent piece on the whole matter, but I still wanted to share my thoughts.

Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella

I sometimes forget, but long before I had wrapped my head around the brilliance of Emily Weiss, I had already found a personal fairy godmother when it came to matters of beauty. I'm talking about my fabulous friend (have I any other?) Kristien. My ever expanding perfume collection (bane of my boyfriend's existence - he lives in constant fear of the next addition) can be traced right back to a moment six years ago, when she gave me a bottle of scented body lotion from The Body Shop. I loved it so much I had to go buy the perfume as well - and lo and behold, an addiction was born.

She was also the one to introduce me to Kiehl's - I now own 4 of their products, not including samples and the facial cleanser + moisturizer that were confiscated by the evil security assistants at Bologna airport. I fought for my babies, I swear I did. I tried everything from persuasion ("I know you can't take over a 100 ml and the bottle says 125 ml, but LOOK, there's barely 50 ml left!") to puppy eyes to bitchfacing to fake crying. Turns out I'm not capable of that unless you give me a batch of onions and some outtakes from the avarage Britain's Got Talent audition. Group portrait of the surviving relatives:

I dressed them all in black little cloths for a month. Anyway, my following trip to Italy proved to be more auspicious, not in the least because it took me to Florence. Coincidentally, my sweet fairy godmother had recently once again given me a beautiful present. Wouldn't you agree the best presents in life are those you desperately wanted, only you didn't realize until you got them? In a stroke of genius, Kristien had gotten me soap. Not just any old soap. Manufactured by the Officina Profumo-Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella, this was, quite literally, the holy grail of all soaps. The Officina is attached to a church, the Santa Maria Novella, and is of the oldest pharmacies in the world. I'm not a particularly religious person, but if us Belgians entrust brewing the best beers in the world to monks, I don't see any reason for them not to excel in other more worldly matters such as beauty treatments.

My friends, this is the soap to end all soaps. The first time I used it - I'm not exaggerating here - I was flabbergasted by how... incredibly... clean?... it made me feel. My skin was so thouroughly cleaned it didn't quite feel like my skin anymore. Back in the days, people who cursed were sometimes punished by forcing them to wash their mouths with soap. I'm pretty sure that whoever was forced to use this particular soap never dared utter more than an awkward whoopsidaisies afterwards. In fact, I bet that upon entering heaven, Saint-Peter will personally hand you a towel, your room number and a bar of this heavenly soap.

So of course, when we arrived in Florence on a glorious Sunday morning, I insisted we should pay a visit to the Officina Profumo-Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella. Suffice to say it's quite amazing.

I was about to ask a sales assistant the price of their Aetas Salubris-range when my boyfriend, a little pale in the face, tried to rip the serum out of my hands and hissed it cost about 150 euros. I know a lost fight when I see one and I didn't even try to argue. Let me tell you something about L'Oréal: their advertising slogan does not work on men. Florence was enough of an experience to come to terms with my Aetas Salbruis-less life, though. How can anyone not be content with great wine, the best of company, and a view like this?