Last weekend I spent two wonderful days in Paris with my boyfriend. The first day, in true, “do it for the blog photos” style, I ran laps of the city in a fitted blazer and ankle boots (exciting post coming next week). On Sunday morning, legs and feet aching from the previous day, I looked at the outfit I had planned and thought, absolutely no way do I feel like putting this on. So, I dropped it straight back in my suitcase. Instead, I stuck on a baggy jumper, trusty black jeans, and some trainers. I barely bothered with makeup and had the comfiest day imaginable. Anyone who had seen me on Saturday would never have guessed I’d be walking about Paris dressed the way I was the following day. The stark contrast between my attitude the two days made me laugh a lot, but it also got me thinking about something that really, really bothers me.
“I’m not that kind of girl”
I have no doubt at all that you have heard this phrase. Let’s be honest you’ve probably even said it, be it in reference to yourself or someone else. I guess my problem with this phrase is that, I, personally, think I am about 432 different “kinds” of girl. I can’t bring myself to understand why as women we feel the need to put ourselves in a box like that.
I’m the kind of girl whose favourite movie is a sentimental rom-com with Domhall Gleeson and Rachel McAdams (About Time, by the way, watch it). I’m also the kind of girl who goes to see the new Star Wars movies with her big brother and enjoys every minute of them.
I’m the kind of girl who drools over Chanel bags that I will need YEARS to save for. I am also the kind of girl who cherishes a scruffy pair of Olaf slippers her mum bought her a handful of Christmases ago.
I’m the kind of girl who studies a Masters of Arts at university and is on the way to being fluent in French. I’m also the kind of girl who has an Instagram account dedicated to fashion and beauty.
Some days I’m the kind of girl who never wants to stop travelling. Other days I’m the kind of girl who wants to curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea, and spend the day chatting rubbish with her friends.
I admit it might seem trivial, but I have such a problem with everything that the root of this thow-away remark implies. No one can be just one “kind of girl”, and that is something we need to celebrate. Next time you judge that girl in the restaurant taking 25 pictures of her food before she eats it, remind yourself that she has so many interests and sides to her personality that you have no idea about. The moral of this ramble is that no woman is one dimensional, and if you love fashion, it’s still not a sin to want to wear trainers and a baggy jumper sometimes (even in Paris).
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