When I got the call I exalted. I pranced around my boxy university room in Edinburgh totally joyous (this news also prompted one of the best high-fives I've ever received, but I digress). As I sank down into my spinny chair trying to stop shaking so that I may return to critically analysing Chaucer, a thought struck me; what the hell do I wear?
Ultimately the biggest problem with invoking that word is that it allows the media and us to pop her up onto the pedestal entitled "Woman Describing the Modern Female Experience" then return to our regular lives. We don't have to listen to other women with alternative experiences because, look, we've already got that one over there and see how much we idolise her?
I recently turned 36, and don't get me wrong - I adore my thirties, but tipping the scales closer to forty, I looked over my soft curves with an extra portion of arse, and thought - It's now or never. My twenties were a ball of confusion, random sex, and insecurities, so I wouldn't want them back for love or money, but, I was a great deal slimmer.
Fashion is big business, it is part of the GDP of many nations, and it is a business of talent and perfection in the background. When this week London held its Fashion Week, the average collection run through is about 12-16 minutes. The rest of the seconds, minutes and hours towards and after that moment is a clockwork industry of talent and precision.