In Praise Of Blazers
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.