With a rack like this, neutral ain’t natural.

All the to-do surrounding gender neutral fashion and the associated catwalk shows filled with androgynous looking teenagers gazing into the middle distance doesn’t make a jot of fucking difference to me. I simply cannot do unisex.

It’s not a matter of choice. I’m anatomically predisposed to clothing shaped for women. How I’d love to throw on a boyfriend jean or a preppy hoody and confidently step out for an afternoon at a gallery, but no. I’d look like a fucking shoplifter. Or someone they pull over on Road Wars.

I lack the prerequisite ‘gamine’ figure to rock this particular trend. I’m more of ‘cover up my arse and then detract attention away from EVERYTHING with leopard’ print kinda gal. There is theory behind everything:

  • Shit skin/hangover – the application of seventeen metres of eyeliner will gamely detract attention away from the fact I look like I’ve been dug up.
  • Fat arse – cover with huge batwing jumper. Add emergency ginormo-handbag. Just in case.
  • Bad hair day – don most ludicrous outfit. Additional points for platforms, pleather and fat gold chains. Run DMC knew how to accessorise.

And there’s no reason on earth why boys can’t do any of these things, being well equipped in the limb, arse or eye departments.

We have always dressed our daughter in very practical, near-neutral fashion. Favouring Swedish clothing with funky repeating patterns, jeans, jumpers and practical boots. You see, the fabric and colour is not an issue for me. Once my mother suggested I experiment with pastels and I shot her a look that was so lethal it could’ve bagged me a job with secret services. We never spoke of it again and sadly I have never been engaged to use said look in matters of national security. They’re missing a trick.

Anyway, the other way round simply doesn’t work for me. Unisex jeans are too tight and low (I’ve had a child and I’m 41, fucksake. There is no way on earth I’m going to wear low cut jeans. You can get to feck). The tops are all ‘sporty’ or ‘shirty’ and make my tits look like one of those floating shelves you get in IKEA. And, most bothersome to me, it’s all straight up and down.

As much as I’d like to have the figure of a newborn giraffe, I am sadly more like an elderly hippo. I am lumps and bumps. All soft bits and curves. My little daughter used to make me lie on the floor on my side so she could run her toy cars up the mountain and down again. I read a lovely book and she played out a  journey to the shops across the perilous terrain of my arse. Win-win situation.

So I’ll stick to my girl clothes, with their insane high street variable sizings and excessive embellishments. I’ll pay to have trousers shortened and sleeves taken up. I know these problems well and can cope with them. My clothed tits will continue to resemble actual tits. And my big ole butt will wiggle in frocks and wobble on heels for the foreseeable future.

 

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