An Army Boots Situation

An Army Boots Situation

My friend F is gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. When I'm with her, I jokingly refer to myself as the 'fat friend'. But strangely enough, she's constantly worried about the way she looks. It just goes to show that self confidence is not related to actual appearance, but a host of other messy issues of the kind that require hours in a psychiatrist's chair, lots of tissues and finally, a really big bill.

I distinctly remember an occurrence when we were eleven or twelve which perfectly epitomizes extreme teenage angst and our preoccupation with self image. Doc Marten's were in fashion and everybody in our group of friends had a pair. Mine were light brown 10 holers with yellow laces (come to think of it, I should have kept them because they're now back in fashion). Unfortunately, F didn't have a pair because with her feet being a size 8, the local shop didn't have any in stock big enough. Instead, her Mum had insisted on buying her a pair of boots from the local army and navy store as a kind of consolation prize, insisting they were 'exactly the same'.

We were getting ready to go to the school disco when it happened. I was already dressed (stripy tights, denim hot pants, body suit, velvet waistcoat, floppy hat, deathly pale foundation and Rimmel heather shimmer lippy as the finishing touch with a quick spray of Impulse – classy!) and F realised that she couldn't wear the army boots, because, well, they were hideous. And by hideous I mean proper ugly - full on army boots with steel toecaps and an interestingly textured shiny type leather. Neither did they go with anything in F's wardrobe – not even her crushed velvet tassled hippy skirt with the little mirrors on which she had planned to wear that evening (girls reading this who grew up in the nineties, I know that you had one as well!) In short, they were horrendous and nothing like Doc Marten's at all.

Well, she cried. With huge sobbing gulps, lying on the floor on top of all the discarded items that she couldn't wear. Her parents remonstrated with her, saying that the boots looked fine and she was just being silly. But she knew they didn't look fine. And so did I. And, even at the age of twelve, I knew with startling clarity that the situation was devastating for her. It wasn't just about the boots. It was about fitting in, being accepted and feeling great on that particular night. The second form school discos was the event on our social calendar and she absolutely had to bag the last dance to Bryan Adams with a certain hot boy who had been eyeing her up on the school bus.

I can't even remember what she wore. I do remember that we hatched a plan later on which involved either burying or burning the boots. Sitting on the floor at the end of the bed where we lay that night after the disco, they looked like some huge fat black insect, a manifestation of every teenage girl's worst fears. That fear of being different, of being a social outcast.

Nowadays, F can look back at that evening and laugh. It has even become our catch phrase, as in ' I think I'm going to have an Army Boots Situation, I've got nothing to wear...' Haven't we all had an Army Boots Situation at some time or another? That awful sinking feeling that your clothes are all rubbish and you can't leave the house because you're so hideous?

I still have it from time to time, although I can deal with it better now I'm in my thirties. For me, the realisation that I have nothing to wear and the ensuing frenzy of pulling every item of clothing out of my wardrobe and collapsing in a heap on the floor is closely followed by a rational return to sanity. I realise that I have to pick myself up off the bedroom floor, pour a large white wine and get on with it (Girls Aloud optional at this point)

And I always find that if I'm having a crap day that a thick application of Rimmel's Heather Shimmer perks me up no end ….