TO ALL THE DATES I HAD BEFORE: VOL 1.
The Boyfriend-Girlfriend Complex
A new series that takes a look at dating through a fashion lens. Covering both a love of designer collections and forgotten romantic encounters of the past.
The year is 2009, and Balmain has not long debuted its iconic crystal-embellished military jacket. A design that saw teens swarm high-street retailers en masse for an affordable dupe. Sharp-shouldered and detailed with gold-tone studs instead, H&M’s recreation of the SS09 piece was purchased in an effort to emulate Beyoncé’s post-dinner street style and to pair it with anything other than skinny jeans and a cute top, would have been a cardinal sin. Facebook pages were the moment, cleverly meme-ing the hit song titles that dominated your daily commute. The pre-historic Metaverse rejoices when you update your online relationship status from, ‘single,’ to ‘in a relationship’, and chronically online even then, you were on the receiving end of unsolicited pokes, cautiously returning the favour. These are the days of our millennial lives.
Somewhere amongst the madness, my own love story-lite was just beginning. Sat across the kitchen table from Yunga Slizz in his mother’s three-storey home, I posed a question burning the tip of my tongue. “So… are you my boyfriend now then?” He half-heartedly obliged and we became boyfriend-girlfriend, officially. As with any relationship and despite having imposed the title upon myself, I was terrified of being somebody’s anything as I assumed your entire persona had to change to be awarded that title. By 16, I had already developed a combined willingness and reluctance to be a girlfriend and was often the sounding board for adults’ complaints about their spouses. Many of whom refused to leave because it meant being alone. Absorbing every syllable of the ‘men are trash’ regime before it was awarded an official global title, I took each word as a lesson that you could either be happy or be in a relationship with a man, but never both.
Although I loved boys, I didn’t want a boyfriend. I sort of figured that having a boyfriend was just something you had to do at 16. Almost everyone in my immediate friend group had one and they seemed to be the perfect accessory for Autumn-Winter. Following the trend along with leaning UGG boots and diamanté jeggings, which were similar to Jean Paul Gaultier’s collaboration with YProject and screen-printed with a denim motif. Brave enough to demand exclusivity - as I wasn’t yet indoctrinated into the preposterous idea of going with the flow - I cuffed one of the lads I spent my evenings SMS texting, and coveted the must-have accessory of 2009, a boyfriend.
Given that he’s been reduced to an accessory in a year of fashion that deserves little resurgence, it should come as no shock that I wasn’t particularly into this boyfriend. He was reminiscent of a vintage handbag in a thrift shop. I liked it (him), but not enough to warrant paying for it right now and knew if I didn’t purchase it today, I might never find it again. Despite being the perfect mixture of hood, hot and clever which hit a sweet spot with high school Lauren, college Lauren was growing tired of Hood Economics and translating the stark difference in lingo. Soon, “my likkle scholar,” just wasn’t hitting as hard post-GCSE. The flame began to dwindle almost immediately after I entered the new grounds and was surrounded by attractive second-year students who had already formed their college personas. Once we graduated from high school, Slizz moved back to North London and it became what felt like a long-distance relationship. The blurry love haze became HD and my interest withered. Perhaps due to the new hour-long commute or having to be back home by 8 pm latest. Alas, we had affirmed a title and I was dedicated to pairing my relationship with the perfect floral tights and hipster shorts.
Admittedly, we ran out of things to speak about fairly quickly and would oftentimes sit in silence staring at one another. His best quality was his face and his handsomeness was the driving force behind my decision to crown him the essential boyfriend of ‘09. He had one of those faces that you’d imagine live studio audiences would scream and fawn over when he entered as a celebrity cameo. 1990s fine.
Carrie Bradshaw in Balmain Spring-Summer 2009
Our love story had begun only four months prior. An innocent first date at the local park, two bottles of Lucozade orange and the entirety of Channel U’s discography on mp3. The meeting point was halfway between our parents' homes which meant we had equal time to reach our desired destination. Filled with glee and excitement, I wore a padded nylon gilet, zipped hoodie over a striped Primark Skims-before-Skims top and my skinniest skinny jeans. His outfit was the perfect ‘his’ to my ‘hers’ as he donned baggy jeans and a long-sleeved top under a padded parka jacket.
Despite frequently seeing him in his scruffy school uniform and shortened tie after school, it was unfamiliar territory, and he could flex a new personality in his home clothes. I spotted him approaching the bus stop to “pick me up,” and the nerves ensued. He leaned down to hug me and whispered, “You look good,” which engorged my world with vaginal butterflies I had no idea where to place. We walked up the hill to the park in an awkward silence accented by nervous laughter and when finally reaching our destination, sat on a swing each to ask the questions that today would fill me with dread. How many siblings do you have? What’s your favourite colour? Blah blah blah. This was clearly a diversion tactic as with each question answered, my crush crept closer and closer. Until soon he had focused all of his energy onto my swing. Standing before me, his Nike Blazers gripped firmly in the gravel pit, he asked his final domanda, “So… what college you going to?” I grew nervous trying to piece together an answer as I had kissed enough boys by this point to know what was going to happen next, the first-date kiss.
Taking ownership of the intimate moment, he pulled me toward him and planted a kiss on my lips. After that, there were no awkward moments, only tender ones. It had broken the ice enough that I was comfortable being my quirky teen self and he seemed receptive to that. A fleeting romantic encounter I have since buried deep in my subconscious, I’m unsure how things actually ended with Slizz, but I’m fairly sure it was finalised with an, “its ova” text from either one of us. Once we’d realised the actuality of a relationship had a shelf life of a month max.
Adding to my collection of dates that once were, I’ve spent many nights as of late reflecting on many of my regr- relationships* like this one. Many of which were as fleeting as my brief love affair with brightly coloured clothing and tight comic-printed T-shirts. Understanding that my love of fashion and an ever-changing aesthetic in my garderobe is perhaps stronger than my ability to keep a man who breathes too loudly or drinks glasses of whole milk as an adult, is as ever a learning curve in a new series I hope will be a therapeutic review of my past loves, and adoration of seasonal collections.
Until the next romantic flashback and remembrance of the fashions that once were, I bid you adieu.
*All names and locations have been changed.