Im going to be a journalist, what of it?

No. not really. But I am getting a story published in our mannix fortmonthly magazine, which is only available to students. So I thought i'd share it with you guys..

Since coming to Mannix my lifestyle has changed dramatically. Not just the regular changes, like three squares meals a day (My gap year was spent in a constant state of grazing), or nocturnal sleeping patterns (I went to bed early last night, it was only 12.30), or actually having to study (or, at least, allotting time for study which will be filled with other important tasks, like musing about Mannix). No, the biggest change I have noticed since coming to Mannix is the way in which I approach clothing.

 At the start of the year, when I was a fresh faced fresher (as opposed the grubby worn in fresher that I now am), I thought really, really hard about the clothes I wore. It was impossible to get to know every single person at the college all at once so the main way people could get an idea of what I was like was to look at me. I would comfortably sit in my room in a singlet and trackies but when it came time to venture to the comm for a spot of ‘getting to know your fellow top easters’ quality TV watching, I would change into ‘real’ clothes, lest someone think I has enough self esteem to wear what  I want.

Pretty soon, I got to know my fellow Top Easters, and the desire to be comfortable began to outweigh the perks of not seeming like a bogan (plus telling people I spent my gap year hanging out in a country pub kind of gave me away anyway). And so the comfort dressing spread to the Comm and all of the far reaches of top east.

It was ok though, because my comfort (code for horribly-mismatched-first-thing-I-threw-on) clothing never left top east, so to the people I didn’t know very well I still appeared to be decent, respectable functioning member of society.

And then came Thursday morning breakfasts. When I have spent the evening (and early morning) playing pool, cavorting with collegians and shredding up the deserted dooleys dance floor, waking up for breakfast and a soul sucking lecture is not my favourite thing to do. The only way to get from the comfort of my own bed to the raison bread loaf before anyone else is to trick myself into going by not actually waking up until I arrive. You know what I mean, its the old thought process ‘if I go really really quickly my body won’t have time to disagree with this hellish hour of the morning and send me back to bed.’ So I roll out of bed and drag on necessary items of clothing as I shuffle my zombie ass down to breakfast. There is always time to change after food and coffee have entered my system.

And there we have it, my first foray into dining room inspired clothing apathy. It was a slippery slope from breakfast onwards and pretty soon all of my meals were eaten in the comfort of my Mannix trackies and a purple jumper (any one of the 8 that I own, it looks like barney the dinosaur threw up in my wardrobe).

It was there at the dinner table, surrounded by respectable placement med kids, that I made a conscious decision to never let my mannix uniform (which I have begun to affectionately think of it as) leave the grounds and spread to Monash, nay all of Melbourne!

And so, despite feeling sometimes like the MCSS has hit me with a truck, rather than just provide a good function, I always put some thought into wearing an actual outfit to uni, even if I do come home straight after and change. I thought this was the right decision on my part until today, when my consistent efforts were rebuked and my resolve was crushed.
Today was a glorious day, all sunshine and blossoms, so I decided to encourage the onset of a sniffily nose and good mood with a spring dress. When I walked into German, my German buddy looked me up and down and instead of complimenting the dress (who am I kidding, that was never on the cards), telling me that I should be cold, or even giving me a polite guten morgen, he launched into a lecture about how I dress too nicely, thus showing him up and making him feel like a slob. Wasn’t I an arts student? He inquired, and since when do arts students make an effort? I ought to show up in trackies like him.

The last place I vowed never to let my mannix uniform go, and that is the place that it will be welcomed with open arms. So I have decided that I will be judged by some for dressing down, and some for dressing up. I will be judged by me for everything, so at the end of the day it makes no difference, and a hoodie is hells more comfy than a high waisted belt.

So watch out Italian tute, trackied up Cecelia is coming your way this Friday.