A fascination with fascinators
Melbourne Cup day in Australia is a day when a collective racing spirit takes over, changing workplaces so dramatically that the entire state of Victoria now enjoys a public holiday. Known as the ‘race that stops the nation,’ the Melbourne Cup is a showstopper event, not only for horse racing but fashion and celebrity. For regular folk, it’s probably the only horse race they watch each year and on the 364 other days, a flutter on the horses falls off the radar and the fascination with fascinators is completely lost.
If you don’t work, work from home or are a stay-at-home-mum as I was for 10 years, you are completely removed from the fervour. It’s really not that riveting to watch a race on your own with a toddler asleep in bed, knowing that the school bell conflicts with the timing of the race each and every year and basically you’ve got one eye on the school pick up clock, and one eye on it for the start of the race. Even the 2016 winning jockey’s wife knows the reality of the school pick up/Melbourne Cup race clash, it’s a reality in many households apparently. Western Australia does it better, being 3 hours behind eastern standard time. The race conveniently starts there at midday, at the beginning, rather than the end of a corporate lunch — a great way to kick off festivities.
But I am working this year, and was pleasantly surprised that the small workplace had a Melbourne Cup lunch planned. We all got the memo, which basically said, “be there or be square. And don’t forget your fascinator”.
I thought I’d get a bit racy for race day. You know, wear a dress rather than the stock standard black pants and black top. Donning the most colourful, floral dress in my wardrobe this morning, I then spruced it up with red heels (oh my god) and stepped up onto the closed toilet lid to view the result in the bathroom mirror. Um, maybe not.
A bit like when you accidentally have your smart phone camera on reverse and get an unedited, unflattering, I’d go as far as saying devastatingly realistic image of yourself — one that certainly doesn’t match the image in your head — when I stepped up to view the floral number in the mirror, well, I basically realised that look wasn’t going to fly in the office. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
So this blog is perhaps less about the conviviality and once-a-year betting frenzy associated with the Melbourne Cup than the awful realisation that we women age and some of us do it disgracefully, much to the chagrin of our children. I could have, of course, stepped out in the said floral number with an above knee hemline and scooped neckline in order to embrace everything that a Melbourne Cup luncheon has to offer, but the thing is, I second guessed myself. It’s a ghastly thought, but it occurred to me that clearly I need to redefine confidence so that my white stripes and wrinkles (and I’m not talking about an un-ironed item in my wardrobe) are central pillars of looking and feeling fabulous.
In a world full of conspicuous consumerism and social media, sometimes it’s hard to accept that being you is enough.
