At around 14, I fell hard for fashion. Like you (probably), I was obsessed with Sportsgirl - remember those ads in Dolly and one of them was this like, cool hippie girl riding a horse nude? It made no sense, yet inspired me to let Sportsgirl eat up most of my allowance each month.
I strutted through the school halls on Mufti Day like I was Bec Cartwright, decked out in baby tees with Mickey Mouse on them and pedal pushers.
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My obsession only continued as I got older. I had about seven of those elastic material belts from Supre, a whole jewellery box of long 'pearl' necklaces (my Gossip Girl phase, of course) and so on.
You name the trend; I owned it. Big time.
By my 30s though, I was exhausted. I had credit card debt up to my eyeballs, and for what? Every time summer would roll back around, I’d lug down my space bag filled with compressed shorts and sift through the year prior’s fashion, culling 70 per cent of it because it had either fallen apart (thanks, fast fashion) or was “out of style”.