One of the reasons I like sci-fi films is because future humans have decided that they all wear one costume. It is usually a no-frills jumpsuit and I don’t see any designer logos on the chest, cuffs or collar. Women have done away with handbags, heels and chunky jewellery. At the most there is a bracelet or a headband that helps them communicate with beings from other planets. I envy their freedom from fashion. I dread to think of the time, money and creative energy I would save if I were able to resist fashion’s dictates. Everywhere you look there’s a supermodel or influencer staring back at you with an alluring stance and puckered mouth, daring you to be as bold as them. Moreover, the influencer’s chirpy pirouette misguides you into thinking that happiness can be acquired by following a new trend.

I have nothing against consumerism per se because it gives the buyer a temporary high, one that I have indulged in more than I care to admit. Yet, a model in professional make-up can pull off almost anything. To my surprise most of the online shopping websites have them posturing like they’re in the middle of a seizure. Besides, it’s rather difficult to tell if the linen pants they’re wearing will look stylish all day. The models don’t have to deal with crumpled cloth, rushed schedules and natural lighting. To make matters worse, every outfit has a different fit, so it is impossible to tell the size. There is so much back and forth with credit card companies and delivery or pick up agents that one wonders if the end result is worth it. As for shopping in stores; I could swear that I looked svelte in their mirror but frumpy at home. Moreover, even though we’re shopping all the time, an alarm bell goes off in the mind at the receipt of an invite. If you have the right dress, you don’t have the right shoes, if you are fortunate to have both, you don’t have an accessory. No matter how hard you try, you’re not going to meet your own critical appraisal, especially when you see your photographs after the party. I’ve stared at an open cupboard and realized long before Marie Kondo made it world famous that hardly any clothes except my worn out trackpants and a couple of t-shirts spark joy. I am happiest watching movies or tapping away on my computer unperturbed by the fact that I look like something the cat dragged in.

It is evident to me that people frequent spas and health resorts to get away from the pressure created by extravagant lifestyles. They’re willing to pay large amounts of money for someone to confiscate their belongings at the entrance and put them in comfortable loose clothes for the duration of their stay. You see, the lure of the spas are the quasi-monkish pajamas they compel you to wear. One can stay at home in pajamas, practice yoga and drink green tea, but somehow at home we just need that new ‘it’ bag and the perfect pair of heels to meet friends over cocktails at a dimly lit restaurant where not much is visible. We have determined that part of our daily routine requires scrolling, buying and trying new looks in order to fit in. At this point, I should confess that this was a pointless rant. If I try to emulate a future human, I will look like I escaped a mental institution. I am not fooling anyone, least of all myself. I hate fashion only until I spot the next advertisement.