“Can you not just wear a belt?”
That was the question asked of me by my significant other this morning. I was, as always awkardly adjusting my skinny jeans while complaining how I will no doubt spend the entire day adjusting them. His question was obviously met by my best dead stare which to me said everything but to him meant nothing.
“You don’t wear a belt with skinny jeans!”, I wanted to say.
He was, as always, confused by my silence and was now worried that he had said the wrong thing.
“But why wear them if they’re uncomfortable?” he added.
I had several answers all of them relating back to F.A.S.H.I.O.N but ready as I was to jump full force into a 20 minute lecture it was then it dawned on me.
What was the point? He would not understand! He had as much chance of understanding as I did of ever grasping the offside rule in Football.
It dawned on me then that Fashion had become my football. I was a loyal supporter, I understood the rules and was willing to argue and rant them to whoever would listen over a glass of wine.
I could talk about Fashion and my latest obsession (whether a shearling jacket or YSL scarf) for hours in much the same way as Wayne Rooneys current form and pay rise no doubt echoed around many a public house over the weekend. I was a devoted follower preferring some teams (labels) over others and ensured that I knew endless hours of facts and figures in the same way the results table could be recited on the spot.
Yes I was obsessed and how could I expect him to understand?
Hadn’t I berated him over the years about his obsession, while secretly habouring my own equal passion?
My answer? I smiled sweetly, hitched up my jeans (again) and replied.
“Perhaps I will buy a belt…”
After all he does understand, Fashion is just a whole other sport and I was looking forward to my next fixture.