RIP To My Fashion Sense
Accepting the transition from "London creative" to "dishevelled park ranger" in a North Face shell.
I used to be a man of style. I had a wardrobe full of Topman denim, delicate knits, and a collection of white trainers that were actually white. I used to care about “layering” for aesthetics. Now, I layer for survival.
As we hit mid-February, I’ve officially reached the final stage of grief: acceptance. I have accepted that my daily look now begins and ends with The North Face Uniform. It’s a specific kind of uniform. It says, “I have given up on being attractive, but I am very unlikely to get hypothermia in a waterlogged park.”
This isn’t just about a jacket; it’s about a total personality collapse. I walked past a mirror in a pub last night and didn’t recognise the man staring back. Who is this bloke in the muddy shell and the “sensible” waterproof boots? When did my trousers start making a swishing sound when I walk?
The tragedy is that you don’t even notice it happening. It starts with one “practical” purchase because the rain in London has been relentless. Then, you realise your nice wool coat smells like wet dog, so you bench it. Then, your Sambas get ruined in a muddy puddle, so you buy something with “traction.” Suddenly, you’re standing in Waitrose looking like you’re about to summit Everest, when you’re actually just trying to find a specific brand of organic blueberries for a Bulldog.
I am no longer a “man about town.” I am a human utility belt. My pockets are no longer for my phone and wallet; they are filled with crumpled poo bags, high-value liver treats, and a tennis ball that is 40% saliva. I have become the very person I used to mock. I am a Dog Dad, and my only fashion requirement is that my clothes can be hosed down in the shower.
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Reindeer games 🤣 oh she looks so precious in that video what an atheleat.