As the champagne highs and mirror selfie lows from last week’s VAMFF fade, I’m still recovering from one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. I, a blogger, wore 100% of my own clothes to VAMFF.
It was horrible, you guys.
Let me break this confusing and off-brand experience down for you, day by day, so you too can experience the roller coaster that is wearing your own clothes out in public.
Hold on tight, it’s going to get rough up in here.
Day 1: No one will suspect a thing if I wear all black
After five days of panic attacks about the fact I only own 21 dresses to choose from for Day 1, I decide to go all black. After all, this is Melbourne and it’s hard to make your way onto a worst dressed list in black. I think.
I choose a pair of black bellbottoms and a long-line black blazer from two different high street brands, and cobble myself together a ’70s suit situation. I leave my bra at home in the hope that at the very least, I might get photographed for a nip slip.
I mean, if you’re not photographed at VAMFF you might as well be dead.
A photographer who is snapping for Vogue stops me enthusiastically and asks to take an outfit pic. I stalk up and down the promenade like a flamingo missing a kneecap, and he still seems enthusiastic until he asks me what I’m wearing. I list three devil brands that aren’t sold on Net-A-Porter. I don’t get in Vogue.
I consider lying next time, just to see whether the Vogue editors would actually know.
Day 2: Kim K gets photographed a lot, why don’t I just dress like her?
I mean, I’ve got a similar ass on me, so why not?
Again, I trawl my wardrobe for a bunch of black stuff so I can pretend I’m “chic” and “don’t care.” I end up deciding to layer a v tight navy dress over a black pleated skirt.
What else does KK wear… Sock boots! Corset chokers! Dark lips! I layer all of it on, greedily, without restraint, like an influencer at a gifting suite.
I arrive at VAMFF and every WAG up in here is getting photographed in Kardashian Kouture Kollection rip-offs. I’m being ignored heavily. I either need to install some fake boobs quick smart or find a footballer husband if I am to achieve my lifelong #dream of being paid attention to by photographers at VAMFF.
I begin scheming to sneak eyedrops into Bec Judd’s champs.
Day 3: Alright that’s it, I’m getting the Gucci out
It’s time for the big guns: my Gucci is coming out. I assume a million photographers will swarm around me as I exit my limousine Uber and I’ll coyishly glance up from behind my dark sunglasses, thus delivering the perfect street style shot.
Someone else wears a less expensive Gucci snake bag and horrid snakeskin pants (GET IT! SNAKE REF!) and thus courts the swarm.
I cry into five or six rosés as someone tells me my bag is too large to be current. I tell them my husband offered to buy me Gucci and I just chose the biggest one I could see because I’m a greedy, greedy Gucci pig.
Day 4: This is me, giving up
Fuck it. I’m busting out my best Justin Bieber cap and comfy oversized tee. I’m too old for this shit.
A photographer stops me as I whisk past the Lavazza bar – I assume she’s asking me for directions, but instead she wants an outfit pic.
DREAMS, KIDS. THEY REALLY CAN COME TRUE.
Follow Bianca’s off-brand Instagram in which she wears all her own clothes (oh my god how embarrassing) at @_thesecondrow.