(^70) | marieclaire.com.au
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CHALLENGE
challenge. I’m being sent to
Italy for work. Italy! I’ll be
attending two pre-fashion
week events in Rome and
the international glitterati
will be out in force. So,
what to wear? My
excitement dims a little
when I realise this
is no longer an excuse to
wear something new and
fabulous, until a girlfriend
suggests I try a clothing
rental site.
Today’s sharing
economy means we rent
music, split car fares and
borrow apartments, so it
makes sense that we would
hire clothes, too. I choose
luxury rental site The Volte
because you hire directly
from the lender, and pick
out a red Zimmermann wrap dress (it’s
new season and retails for $550, but
I’ve got it for the week for $175).
The frock works a charm at the
dinner in Rome, a glitzy affair in front
of the towering Colosseum. I feel like
I fit right in – after all, the celebs and
influencers have no doubt borrowed
their lavish looks too. Buoyed by my
sustainable shift, I get through the
rest of the week purchasing naught
but a box of panettone for my mum.
Of course I’m aware that next month
will be the real test: Dry January is all
too often followed by Drunk February.
But with my “fashion fast” coming to
an end, I fly home feeling transformed
and virtuous. Hypocritical, me? Never.
D
ear reader, I lied. Did you
really think I’d manage a
trip to Italy, birthplace of
Gucci, Pucci and Monica
Bellucci, without falling
prey to temptation? My intentions
were pure, but old habits die hard.
It’s the morning after the fancy
dinner, and I’m wandering Rome’s
quaint cobbled streets, ignoring the
chain stores and their shouty saldi
(sale) signs. But then I stumble across
a hole-in-the-wall boutique, and
something draws me inside. It smells
like sandalwood and musk, and brims
with costume jewels, strappy shoes ...
and the most beautiful dress I’ve ever
seen. It’s made from delicate black
lace, with a softly ruffled bodice that
flares gently into a modest train.
There’s no harm in trying it on, I
think. Except it fits like a glove. I have
a big party to attend that evening, and
although I’ve brought a KITX number
to wear from home (the brand scores
points for its eco cred), this gown is
something special. Nobody has to
know about my little slip-up, I tell
myself, as I sheepishly pull out my
credit card. And I’ll feel like a million
dollars at the party.
But a funny thing happens as
I step onto the red carpet that night.
I don’t feel like a million dollars.
Maybe I’m just having one of those
days, or maybe it’s because I’m
surrounded by beautiful people.
I’m self-conscious about my strapless
bodice falling down and people keep
stepping on my train. It’s especially
awkward when I have to tap top
model David Gandy on the shoulder
as he’s planted his foot so firmly that I
can’t swivel away.
Although the drinks are flowing
and the music is pumping, the party
fizzles before it’s really kicked off. By
midnight, I’m back in my hotel room
in my dressing gown, chowing down
on room-service pizza and watching
Queer Eye re-runs in Italian.
The first thing I see when I
wake up the next morning is my
dress draped over a rococo lounge
chair. I feel sick, and it’s not just the
medley of Negronis and champagne
swirling in my stomach. It’s guilt. Guilt
because I’ve cheated, guilt because I
spent an obscene amount of money,
and guilt because this impulsive,
potentially one-wear purchase negates
all my gains in sustainable style.
I should have re-worn my lovely
KITX slip, but I was seduced by the
power of the new. And the fantasy –
I think on some level, I
thought the dress would
take me on an adventure.
In a creation that
exquisite, I should have
been whizzing around
the city on the back of
a moped, like Audrey
Hepburn in Roman
Holiday, then dancing
on the street with some
handsome foreigner.
It was naive of me, really,
as we all know the best
nights of our lives usually
happen when we’re
sporting dirty hair,
denim cut-offs and
an old pair of thongs.
Not that I dismiss
the power of fashion to
spur emotion. When I
think about my (freshly
decluttered) wardrobe, it’s filled with
pieces that make me feel something:
a Max Mara trench I splashed out on
after a promotion fills me with pride
each time I put it on; and a creamy
cashmere V-neck that belonged to my
late dad always feels like home. It’s a
reminder that when our clothes are
embedded with happy memories, we
should wear and re-wear them, rather
than perpetually seeking out
something brighter and shinier.
There’s no question that a new outfit
can make you feel great, but if it
languishes at the back of your
wardrobe after just one wear (and one
Insta post), it will probably become
entwined with guilt and remorse.
This idea that clothes are made
to be worn and loved and worn again
is echoed by Maria, the crimson-lipped
owner of a vintage store I visit the next
day. “Everyone’s always obsessed with
what’s new,” she drawls in her thick
Italian accent, as I thumb my way
through racks of pre-loved pastel
skirt suits. “But, in fashion, nothing
is really ever new. It works in cycles.”
Cycles. I want to make it my
buzzword as I continue to reset my
fashion habits. Going forward, I’ll
be enforcing a strict one-in, one-out
rule in my wardrobe, renting rather
than buying for special occasions,
and experimenting with vintage
(I think I’ll start with accessories).
More importantly, I intend to be more
mindful about why I shop – and if
I’m seeking to fill a void or fulfil a
fantasy with a few bolts of fabric.
And hey, next time I’m going to a glam
event, I already have the perfect dress.
“Fashion faster” Kathryn
Madden wearing the
pivotal dress in Rome.
marty
(Marty)
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