When Comfort Became Couture

Once upon a time, if my heels didn’t pinch and weren’t long and sharp enough to double as weapons, or my waistband didn’t cut off circulation, then clearly, I wasn’t stylish enough.

Fashion then was always a choice:
Did I want to look good, or did I want to breathe?
Heels or happiness?
Sequins or sanity?

I still don’t know how I managed to squeeze into pencil skirts and call them “comfortable.” Those stilettos were my pedestal, and I wore them like I wasn’t afraid of heights. As for the sequined blouses, they lit up the entire room and blinded a few. To complete the look, a pop of colour with bright red lipstick, deep smoky eye shadow, a little mascara never hurts, and the dramatic winged eyeliner. Once the sun-kissed look is done with a bronzer and blush, then it’s Glam On.

What a glitzy workout it was!

High heel shoes were my biggest weakness. They were a fashion statement. Put yourself in my shoes and you’d know why we were “sole-mates” and how it feels to breathe that clean air up at that altitude.

Skinny jeans were another love affair. Even if it meant lying flat on the bed, gasping for air while wriggling them on inch by inch, I’d persist. I’d roll to one side, plant my feet on the ground, slide to the edge of the bed, and leap up: finally upright. It took a few minutes before I could breathe properly, but every second felt worth it.

Looking back, perhaps fashion was about suffering.

In my younger days, it wasn’t enough for the outfit to look good; the bag had to match, the jewellery had to sparkle, my nails painted to almost match the colour of the outfit, and my stilettos had to play along. There was a certain satisfaction in stepping out feeling every piece belonged to the same story.

A couple of weeks ago, I found a pair of those skinny jeans and sequined blouses hiding at the back of my cupboard. Out of nostalgia, I tried slipping in the jeans when, halfway through, I gave up. I don’t have those skinny genes anymore.

For what joy had I kept the blouses? They scratched me and were stitched tighter than my patience and I couldn’t lift my hand over shoulder height.

Today, comfort is my couture.

I still carry a soft nostalgia for those days when fashion was my playground: when I could try on the outrageous, believe shoulder pads were the height of power dressing and wriggle into skinny jeans – cheerfully called drainpipes back then, which tells you exactly how much oxygen they allowed.

These days, my wardrobe whispers a different story: one of comfort. But let’s be clear, comfort doesn’t mean I’ve retired glamour. It just means I am no longer willing to be held hostage by a zipper or risk an ankle sprain and have the paramedics on standby while getting ready.

From here on, I’m only into calculated risks: clothes that are light and of loose-fitting style that let me exhale, shoes that keep me grounded and accessories for impact.

I find myself drawn more and more to Indian traditional wear. How can I resist? The vibrant colours, luxurious, breezy fabrics and embroidery so intricate, they make even my casual kurtas and sarees feel effortlessly chic. The real fun is in the styling: mixing, matching, accessorizing with statement jewellery, a brocade bag, and ethnic footwear that completely elevates the look.

Whatever my fashion trend may be, jeans always find their way back to me.  They are the only blues that bring me joy. These days, I slide into stretch denims that don’t threaten to rip and politely expand after a hearty buffet.

I’ve absolutely rid myself of wobbling stylishly in those skyscraper stilettos that demanded ankle insurance. It’s Crocs for me now, strutting in them as if they’re Gucci. High heels gave me altitude, but now comfort gives me attitude.

I fondly remember my Podiatrist friend who I would visit quite often, and he always greeted me with, “Let me heel you.” He’s gone now. He started one day on the wrong foot. May his soul rest in peace.

Track pants and T-shirts have become my version of “athleisure chic.” My casual wear all have pockets big enough to carry my life, while bold, chunky accessories let me add drama without pain.

Fashion, I’ve realized, doesn’t have to be a battlefield. My wardrobe has clearly staged a quiet rebellion, but I’m loving this journey from fashion pain to fashion joy. Comfort may be my couture, but confidence will always be my red carpet.