I am a fashion victim. Literally – my clothes have nearly killed me. From the vertiginous heels I fell over in the '80s, to the skinny jeans I had to be surgically cut out of during the '90s, I really have "dressed to kill".
Flicking through photo albums reveals one fashion faux pas after another. Honestly, I've seen better dressed salads. Let's start with those crocheted string bikinis I wore as a teenage surfie girl. I'm amazed extreme sports enthusiasts haven't taken up crocheted string-bikini-wearing as the ultimate risk-taking thrill. Clearly the sadists who designed such swimwear have never studied anatomy because it's impossible for four teeny triangles to cover anything bigger than a freckle.
Disco days brought more sartorial satire.Credit:Alamy
The hidden health impact of this costume drama was severe anxiety from constantly glancing downwards (string bikini pants give "bad-hair day" a whole new meaning) and hyperventilation associated with trying to inhale while holding your stomach in. Plus, as soon as you dived in, the fabric got water-logged and dragged you straight to the sea bed.
Aged 16, I left the beach to hug trees on a hippie commune and took to swanning about in cheesecloth smocks and ponchos. Only two types of people look good in a fringed poncho – six year-olds or nomads tending their yaks.
During my glam-rock phase I strode around in a studded vinyl jacket and high-waisted bell-bottoms. The bigger the flare, the more fashionable. I thought I looked so chic … until the day a wind gust suddenly whipped the right f lare around my left leg and lassoed me. Thus hobbled, I tumbled forward and lay floundering on the pavement like a denim mermaid. Since then, all I dare flare is a nostril.
Disco days brought more sartorial satire. Gold hot pants with a sequinned boob tube was a look which didn't quite come off, but definitely gave the impression that it would later … for the whole band.
In the '80s, I sported huge shoulder pads and tiny miniskirts. Those skirts were so short I wasn't worried that people would see my knickers, I worried they'd see me ovulating. And then there were those torturous skinny jeans. Struggling into a pair once proved so strenuous, I pulled a muscle, lost all circulation in my legs and had to be rushed to hospital. On the other hand, skinny jeans are a great contraceptive. Once you get them on, you can never get them off again.
The bandage dresses we wore in the noughties to show off killer curves also nearly killed us. Staying slim enough to squeeze into such an unforgiving frock meant surviving on starvation rations. A girlfriend sued a cafe for serving whole milk in her skinny latte. She was lucky. A cup of skimmed air was my daily calorie allowance. For a treat, we got to lick a raisin once a week.
Plus, dresses which accentuate every crinkle and dimple can only be worn with heels high enough to cause nosebleeds. Traversing in these skyscraper stilettos feels as though you're walking on a tightrope. That Confident Career Woman look is hard to pull off when toppling face first into the shagpile.
My list of livery lapses seem never ending – cargo pants with heels, romper suits, mullet skirts, highheeled gladiator sandals. My peplum skirt with peek-a-boo boots looked good from a distance – a distance of, say, 200 kilometres. Up close it was the kind of outfit which would frighten a gargoyle. And there's no doubt that if I'd worn my low-slung, bum-cleavage-flashing velour tracksuit into the House of Horrors, I'd have come out with a job offer.
The truth about fashion is that it goes in one era and out the other. For centuries, we women have contorted ourselves into uncomfortable clothing in order to attract men. But there's only one outfit you need for that – a birthday suit.
This article appears in Sunday Life magazine within the Sun-Herald and Sunday Age on sale October 7.
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