There was a brief period in the early 90’s when blue dungarees over tiny t-shirts (and a push up bra) was my uniform. I was an avid Neighbours watcher and Kylie Minogue –– aka Charlene the mechanic –– left a mark. There was something in the comfort of dungarees, open on one side, low in the front, that was so appealing to me at a time in my life when I wanted to be highly visible and I wanted to disappear. The uniform allowed for both, and straddled the line between masculine and feminine, flirty and modest, too much effort and none at all. I look at my daughter’s generation and see similar contradictions in their uniform of baggy sweatpants and voluminous hoodies that unzip to reveal minuscule ribbed tops in all shades of sherbet. To some degree, we never completely outgrow these tensions. They’re always with us and always changing. And is that such a bad thing? Outfits (people) are much more compelling when they’re an odd jumble of contradictions. As a middle aged woman, I am still wearing dungarees. Only this time around, I pair them with my son’s old flannel shirts and ochre woolly socks. Has my need for comfort consumed every ounce of sex appeal I ever had? I swap my socks for a pair of lurex silver ones. And add a flush of pink to both cheeks. That’ll do, for now.