Imagine there’s a week left on earth. I’m talking massive meteor/rapidly-spreading zombie virus/murderous riots after people realised Pitbull rhymed ‘kodak’ with ‘kodak’ and is still richer than any of us will ever be. There’s nothing anybody – not even Bruce Willis – can do to stop it. In short, we’re fucked. Do you know how you’d spend it? I do.
Aside from telling my nearest and dearest that I love them, injecting cookie dough into my veins and a spot of light looting, I would be bringing my sartorial A-game. I know it’s a strange time to be worrying about colour blocking and accessories, what with humanity’s impending doom, but I genuinely would spend my last days on earth wearing everything I was too afraid to when I thought I still had time to form regrets.
I genuinely would spend my last days on earth wearing everything I was too afraid to when I thought I still had time to form regrets.
Yes, if we’re going to be pedantic, the world is not ending. Well, I hope not. I’ve still got a fair bit to tick off the old bucket list. Including item one – write a bucket list. But it shouldn't take the hypothetical destruction of Earth for me to put my glad rags on.
Before we get any further, I want to get a few things clear. Firstly, I'm not for a nano-second suggesting we should dress fancy to keep the fellas sweet. The day I dress for a man is the day I dress for the four horsemen (You know, of apocalypse fame? Because it’s never going to happen?). Secondly, I'm not trying to chip away at the authenticity of women who don't agree with me. I absolutely detest the notion of 'real women', as if there's only room for one perception of femininity and the rest of us are just hologram women. Girl power runs far deeper than what we wear. The dress doesn't maketh the woman, I know that.
And thirdly, I'm not saying we have to be on point 24/7. I'm writing this wearing pyjama bottoms, a scarf somebody left at a house party I had in 2013, and a baggy jumper whose testimonials from my friends and family include: 'it makes me sad' and 'when you wear that you look like you’re a recovering addict collecting your methadone script' (cheers, mum).
Haven't you ever left a knockout dress to gather dust at the back of your wardrobe because you don't have any place to take it?
But haven't you ever pored through image galleries of red carpet events with the same enthusiasm bored housewives reserve for reading Fifty Shades? Haven't you ever plucked something from the rails and thought: 'God I wish I had the guts to wear that?' Haven't you ever left a knockout dress to gather dust at the back of your wardrobe because you don't have any place to take it? I know I have.
But why do we feel we need the right venue, the right occasion, the right size of lady balls to wear what we want? What are we afraid of - looking overdressed?
I used to live in a house with six other girls and we loved a good dress up. Getting ready was always a haze of hairspray and perfume, approached with more precision than most military invasions. Given that, usually, we were only off to neck £1 shots at our student union, maybe we did sometimes look like we'd bought a clutch bag and heels to a knife fight, but I don't remember ever feeling like a dick. Sure, we didn't dress up every night – we love jeans and trainers as much as the next person and the times we went out in pyjamas stretches well into double figures - but the point I'm trying to make is that embarrassment about being overdressed never got a look-in on our evening’s agenda.
I don't want to give away any spoilers, but the world is pretty saturated with bullshit, so I hear. Adult life is splattered with stains of disappointment, fear and tragedy not even all the Cillit Bang in the hemisphere can disinfect. It's a tapestry of unexpected losses, unexpected heartaches and unexpected items in the bagging area. Sure, it's not all doom, gloom and rail replacement services, but there's enough there to get us good and pissed off.
The world IS serious. Fashion IS fun.
You may think I'm clambering up onto a pretty serious soapbox for something as frivolous as fashion - but that's just it. The world IS serious. Fashion IS fun. And that's exactly why we should be paying it the dues it deserves.
Among weaning ourselves off drunk Tindering and trying to crack the secrets of Pharrell's apparently eternal youth, we've got enough on our plates without worrying about what anybody else thinks of our outfits.
If dusting off your fashion big guns makes you happy, do it. If nothing makes you feel more like you're in your own private music video than stepping out in new shoes or a freshly-bought skirt, crack on.
You have every right to wear whatever makes you feel good about yourself - self-esteem doesn't require justification.
So you want to head down the corner shop in a ball gown and Amal Clooney style gloves, then girlfriend, you go right ahead.
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Follow Erin On Twitter: @erincardiff
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.