The first day of classes for the semester will have me feeling that my sartorial elegance is not only achievable every day, but mandatory. Hair is washed and straightened, make up fresh, red lips perfectly applied with none on my teeth even, my outfit clean and ironed and I'm in matching underwear top it off.
However, week four and five sneak up, and so do hoodies instead of blazers or cute jumpers, and ballet flats instead of wedges.
Week seven whizzes past, the compliments lessen and questions of if I have been to the gym increase (errr no… why would you ask that? OH, because of my leggings, runners and jumper combo? Nope, just too lazy to get dressed properly). I still strive for some sense of #fashhhhun, however, matching my runners to my singlets becomes a bit tedious and I find myself in the same oversized jumper days in a row.
Week eight marks the farewell to makeup and the greeting to my ritual of wearing caps and beanies because I just cannot be bothered brushing my hair, and since I’m wearing a jumper… it’s totally okay for me to re-wear the shame shirt from yesterday, right? Right?? RIGHT??? It’s not like I did any actual exercise to sweat up a storm…just sat for hours in various seats of the library.
Weeks eleven and twelve present the opportunity for me to let my inner bogan loose and my leggings are getting a bit tight anyway after a diet of vending machine & 7/11, so tracksuit pants are introduced to the light of day (having not been seen since swot vac the semester before). But, I make sure my tracksuit bottoms are a different colour to my jumper to prevent looking like a robber.
And it happens…freckety frack! It;s already swot vac! I’ve struggled and battled against falling to these depths all semester but alas, I am waking earlier than ever and not leaving the library until I hear Bill or Leah ordering me to do so.
My Triple Grey Ensembles are presented to the world (yes, matching my grey tracksuit pants with grey t-shirt and grey hoodie … boys, form a line!). I will be wearing a cap or beanie, not because I haven’t brushed my hair, but because I haven't washed my hair that fortnight.
I will be sporting a backpack laden with text books, laptop chargers, and coins for the vending machine and parking, and when I catch sight of myself in reflection of the Level 3 sliding doors into the silent area, I will promise myself that next semester I will try harder and never leave the house looking like a walking condom again.