I have nothing to wear.

Not literally of course. My  wardrobe is full of stuff. I also have a couple of boxes under my bed filled with ‘off season’ things and a slight overflow into an as yet unrequired hanging space in one of the children’s rooms. There are plenty of clothes. But I have nothing to wear.

Now, as every self respecting woman will know, this phrase can be interpreted in a number of ways. For me there are generally two translations that fit the bill.

The first is that I have nothing to wear because I am going to a particular occasion and none of my existing wardrobe is suitable. There are plenty of reasons why this might be. It might be a smart affair to which a certain level of dressiness is required. It might be an outing with a group of people that I have been out with in recent memory thus necessitating an alternative outfit. Or it maybe that what is there has unfavourable memories or connotations and won’t give my self confidence the much needed boost to get me through the evening.

These problems are relatively rare and not to difficult to resolve. I seldom go anywhere that requires a degree of smart (which is why the difficulty arises in the first place.) This means that if such an occasion is looming in the diary, I usually have plenty of time to think it through and work out what might look nice with what. I can decide what can be tarted up with some new statement jewellery or different heels. Problem relatively easily resolved.

But the second ‘I have nothing to wear’ moment strikes most days at the moment. It could quite justifiably be rebranded as ‘I have nothing that I fancy wearing.’ Because we have reached that stage in the season when everything I own has been pretty much worn to death. Nothing still has the frisson of being new. No single item still retains the power to make me feel good when I put it on. The lovely little knitted gilets that were so beguiling when I bought them in September are now a bit bobbly, and my arms, not benefiting from their woolliness, get cold. My new Winter jeans are faded at the knee and I really am too old for the leggings that I bought in a nostalgic moment of madness.

I’m bored. I would dearly love something new to relieve the tedium. A little jaunt round the shops to chase away the mid Winter blues would be just the ticket. But my sensible head says that I should  save my pennies and wait for the turn of the season. If I buy Spring clothes in February not only will I look slightly odd and freeze but then when Spring actually arrives I’ll be bored of those too.

I know that it’s shallow and girly to measure my mood by the age of my clothes but let’s face it. If you feel good then you have a better day. Your hair sits right, your eyeliner behaves, your skin looks fresher. I know it’s psycholoical but it’s January and I need all the boosts I can get.

Maybe one little shopping trip to buy a new top or two wouldn’t hurt. After all the way I look at it is that if I’m happy then the house is happy. And anyway, I have nothing to wear!