In Praise Of Blazers

Today I am wearing a band shirt I got from the gig I went to the night before. I'm wearing it despite the frontman telling us, the audience, that this particular load of merchandise had been collecting dust in someone's living room since 2013. My mom jeans are acid wash and baggy, too big for me now which is both a physical win and a finanical disaster. My sneakers have a small hole in the left toe.

So, thank god for blazers. With my blazer on, I am an adult. And adult who sent out all her invoices aided by only a conservative amount of coffees (three) and who, when jarred from her ennui by a surprise visitor to her office, shrugged on this magical outer layer and made successful small talk. I'm an Animorph, transforming from music-loving, messy-haired teenager to hip young professional using the power of houndstooth.

I have always been fond of blazers. I found that when I was drinking, a blazer really brought the whole look together. Me with the tortured soul of a poet, toasting the working week with my smart sleeves rolled up. Alcoholics wear trenchcoats, so with my blazer on I was just another carefree millenial living life to the fullest.

Dancing in the gay bars of Stoke, trying to simultaneously cultivate a "don't @ me" aura irl and not let it show how desperately I wanted to be noticed, I wore a blazer. (Sometimes a waistcoat, which looking back makes it seems miraculous that I received romatic attention from any gender at all.)
I dressed up to go out and make eye contact. You can't get your heart broken in a blazer, because a blazer suggests you have other things going on.

At job interviews I hid my lack of style under a blazer. I've never worked out what the professional woman wears, and will probably get married in a t-shirt. A black dress and tights is all I can usually muster without looking like a toddler who crept into mummy's closet with creative intentions. "What would you say your strengths are?" asks a man wearing a tie pin. I lean back in my chair, comforted by the collar at my neck like the arm of a friend, pockets I can dip my hands into any time I want, the long-line cut subtly hiding my belly which has bloated from anxiety.