There before me stood my closet, and hanging somewhere between the ex boyfriend im too embarrassed to even admit having dated and the fear of ever being bigger than a size 34 sat Jaggermeister, reading exactly like every poorly written romance novel: boy meets girl, boy breaks girls heart, girl nurses a broken heart while pining for asshole.
So there I sat sorting out my closet, and Jaggermeister, like that once cherished pair of bootleg jeans seems to insist on hanging there but alas, now is the time for jumpsuits and skinny jeans or in this case a caramel coloured rebound clad in the latter.
I know that sounds a bit like a band-aid solution but, for me, love is a lot like fashion: better fits, better cuts, better quality comes into stock with every season, its just a matter of shopping around until you find that perfect pair of skinny jeans that make even the shortest and plumpest of us feel like Victoria Beckham.
Fast forward a bit and you find yourself sitting on your bedroom floor in that sublime pair of jeans holding up your bootlegs wondering what the hell you were thinking. So I put them firmly on the “wouldn’t be caught dead” pile and hurled Jaggermeister in that direction too, what can I say, fashion is cut throat, love should be too.