Walking my dog, I feel free to wear the most unhinged outfits – and nobody minds
I’ve found a loophole, says Kate Leaver, who despairs of the limited opportunities to look an absolute mess in public
A school friend of mine once told me she wouldn’t go as far as the letterbox outside her home without wearing mascara, lipstick and foundation. My mum used to blow-dry her hair to go grocery shopping.
Recently, I’ve seen more than one glamorous woman on TikTok warn her followers never to go to the gym without wearing makeup and a cute outfit, in case they have to interact with their weights room crush. Any time I see a friend who’s recently given birth, she apologises so profusely for her dark circles and old T-shirt that you’d think she’d committed a minor commonwealth offence. I’ve heard about someone who puts on a full corporate outfit, including high heels, to sit at the kitchen table in her own home to work.
I despair. Where are our opportunities to look an absolute mess?
Grooming standards are a personal thing. Mine have always been minimal enough to appal every member of my immediate family: unbrushed hair, bare face, no bra. I enjoy dressing up sometimes, but my everyday vibe is more Adam Sandler going for a stroll.
Lucky for me, I’ve found a loophole in the social expectation of put-togetherness: dog walking fashion.
When I have my handsome shih tzu trotting by my side, I can go out in the most unhinged ensembles and nobody seems bothered. I am invisible, I am untouchable, I am immune to the judgment of others because I am out with my dog.
Let me paint you a picture. In the summer months, I might step out in a pair of fuchsia linen harem pants that my mum bought in Greece (that have a hole in the crotch), paired with a 2017 Britney Spears concert memorabilia T-shirt and knee-high, shark-print compression socks tucked into faded blue Birkenstocks that have been worn so many times they bear the dark imprint of my foot sweat. Another day, it might be striped boxer shorts, a tank top that’s hanging on for dear life, and no shoes; it is my right, as an Australian, to feel the warmth of the pavement on my footsies.
When it’s cold, I’ll slip into something like this: pants that are, technically speaking, pyjamas, tucked into lilac ankle gumboots, an old jumper of my dad’s, finished with a thigh-length raincoat buttoned in a hurry, inaccurately. Or fleece-lined track pants, a jumper with an otter on it, socks and thongs. I work from home, so often it’s a case of chucking my favourite item of clothing – a second-hand coat my sister bought in 2009 that looks like a picnic rug with sleeves and has become mine by squatter’s rights – over the top of whatever cosy outfit I’ve cobbled together that morning.
It’s a grab what’s near and what’s comfortable situation; the less thought put into it, the better. And it’s a precious chance for me to take the clothes I am not yet prepared to retire for a spin in the outside world. Stained? No problem. Threadbare? Get it on. When I am with my dog, anything goes.
Nobody blinks an eye. Nobody raises their phone ominously to film me for an Instagram round up of worst dressed strangers. I am free. I am a mess. I am just a girl walking her dog.
And I am not alone. I see you, my chaotically dressed dog-walking brethren: in pyjamas and ugg boots, in animal onesies, in long socks and sandals, short shorts, disintegrating T-shirts, charity shop jumpers. Baseball caps over unwashed hair. Muddy paw prints on your trackpants from the last wet walk. We’re in this together and hey, we might not be catwalk ready, but we do have our dogs.