Yet, undeterred, I try. Today’s offering is a pair of beige trousers, bought several sizes too large and nipped in at the waist by my favourite tailors, a white turtle neck for warmth, a cream fuzzy cardigan (that looks itchy but isn’t) and a cropped tartan overshirt. The look is then finished off with some very tired Air Force 1s and an overstuffed leather handbag that’s drooping in the middle under the weight of my phone, keys, hand sanitiser, mask, life, etc etc, you know. I usually twist my brunette bob into the grips of a splintered Superdrug claw and pretend I’m Bella Hadid.
As I reach the stretch of houses that lead to the park, and while giving myself a pep talk in the form a podcast about independence fronted by two hilarious females, I keep a keen eye out for other people’s wardrobe picks. It's a plethora of lycra, headbands, fingerless gloves, breath that hangs in the air, the squeaky sound of running jackets, those water bottles shaped like a loop you can clutch as you speed walk, all completed by the exasperated sigh of someone's stride I’ve just unintentionally broken when taking a picture of a nice looking tree.
I wade through orange leaves and feel embarrassed. ‘You should’ve come in your Gym Shark leggings and New Balance trainers Lauren, for Godsake’ I lament as I repeat cuss words into the cold air feeling like I’ve missed some imaginary pre 10am memo. I’m uncool and definitely not active enough to be here, sticking to the outer banks of the park like I’m a newbie swimmer in bright, overfilled armbands. ‘You don’t even own a pair of running trainers’ I remind myself as I stand by the mouth of a puddle to let some experts sashay past me in matching 3M leggings.
Rounding a corner, the park opens up which means seasoned athletes begin to blend with bundled up dog owners whose pets are running feral in the soft mud. This is a sea of shin-length Uniqlo puffer jackets, Dubarry boots, expensive-looking knit hats, jeans tucked into cream knit socks and perfect morning hair that looks unbrushed but we all know isn’t. I’m now feeling even more aggressively overdressed, doubling up my walk as I force a smile at someone’s puppy before catching the eye of its owner and feeling my insides recoil. What am I even doing here?
To feel accepted I pause and take a picture of the lake, which in this spot smells of rotting egg. I'm too embarrassed to figure out the queuing system for the cafe so I spend a while feigning interest in the park's resident wildlife as they thrash around in the water. Oh look, some cygnets. Finding a quiet moment away from incredibly happy looking couples, very fast cyclists and people doing strange stretchers on benches, I muster up the courage to applaud myself (silently) for making such an effort to dress up for this small part of my day. This is my slice of recreation time and I’m not going to waste it as I feel I would if I was still in my flat eating a half cold toasted bagel with butter.
Adjusting my AirPods so as to not miss any important piece of information about learning to love my own company (I do) I remember how I used to put this much thought and consideration into my summer outfits for absolutely no reason other than to wear something nice on a two-mile round trip to Tesco. Though feeling like I've slightly overdone it and a little on the cooler side for this especially chilly November morning in London, I think it's incredibly important to take these small. personal moments of joy where we can. Also, I'm 100% certain the runners a) don't give a shit b) even notice me.
Dear park, I'll be back tomorrow and this time I'm thinking tights and a satin dress, I'll see you then.
Lauren xo
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