So. April’s fashion magazine spread has arrived. It is officially, nearly April. Though somewhat devastatingly, the edgy and exciting take on spring I had again held out hope for, has been cautiously sidestepped by mainstream fashion magazines.
Elle UK has gone for pastels. Nothing quite screams indecision like a good old mint green spiced with mid-cream. Apart from florals and the nod to the beach, that is, which occurs on p.79 with deck chair stripes. Wow.
If you read my first post Is it April yet?, you will remember me talking about lacking somewhat in common sense – in that post I recall not being able to articulate which month I am in. Fashion magazines really don’t help with this because they don’t ever have the right month on them. Unless you are in a doctors waiting room and it happens by coincidence, kind of like a broken clock which tells the right time twice a day.
Anyway, I wasn’t planning to recall this previous post so blatantly here… but literally as I have written these first few words, my mum has hollered through from the other room to ask me what year it is.
I admire her honesty.
Whenever I fill in a form I panic slightly that I might not remember the year. Sometimes, I will spend slightly longer writing my name and pretending to read the small print – giving me chance to recall it.
If I was in my 70’s I’d be able to put this down to age. As I’m in my 20’s I have to take a long hard look at myself and just admit it; I don’t really care what date it is, there are more important things to think about, and I am OK with people seeing this as a complete lack of common sense.
Of course, it’s socially acceptable to ask:
What’s the date?
So long as you then follow it up with ‘Gosh, time flies!’ If you have a particularly helpful form-filling assistant, they might even offer the month as part of that answer, just like I did just now when my mum asked me the date:
Err… [checking top RH corner of screen] …15th of March!
It’s a rare gift to be able to utter the words ‘What year is it’ confidently and un-self-consciously.
It seems to me, that it is this same self-consciousness that means fashion editors hide behind pastels and florals when their hearts are crying out for something that speaks more honestly.
And apparently, it’s more agreeable to produce a centerfold which looks as if My Little Pony has vomited peace and love and rainbows onto it (p.65, p.72 Meadham Kirchhoff), than to reflect something of ourselves.