Wednesdays have become a weekly dread to me. The thought of dressing up and not knowing what to wear is I think as monumental a problem as the oil price increases or the current economic downturn. With two espadrilles that I wear alternately every week and only a handful of shirts and jeans, the fashion police might just arrest me for looking like a train wreck.
I hate my clothes. I've worn them a million times and the thought of wearing them again will only make me think of throwing them in the next garbage bag I see. Even vintage ukay-ukays haven't habituated in my closet for months and my body and social life is tingling to wear new ensembles.
If you haven't noticed, which I'm sure you have, unless you've been living at the bottom of the ocean for the last five decades, clothes staple our identities in society. These flimsy things identify what kind of persons we are and to what level of the social pyramid we belong. The richer ones wear H&M's and Zara's and Topshop's and afford a Louis Vuitton monogram or two while the less fortunate ones delight at the luxury of low-end products and 'burloloys" vendors sell at the sidewalks and on market stalls.
They say that fashion is not what you wear, it's how you wear clothes. It's all about mixing high-end and low-end pieces but that is not really the case when even low-end products are heavy on consumer's pockets.
I don't really know where this blog post's going. I cannot dictate brands to market their products at lower prices and I cannot change what society dictates consumers as to how and what to wear to elevate a person's social standing.
And as to me, I can't really complain. With just enough money to make ends meet, I am in no position to complain.