Now, a good 10 years later, I have actually become the exact kind of person that my 14-year-old version would haven been absolutely disgusted by to say the least. I may have worked for a snowboarding magazine. Yes. But that was about it when it comes to the realisation of my 14-year-old freestyle dreams. I never did live in Whistler, Mammoth or Tahoe. Likewise, the flight to the southern hemisphere never happened and the Grenade Crew are no longer of appeal since Danny Kass didn’t answer my e-mails for about three weeks during my time as a snowboarding journalist and like this, almost robbed me of an interview (he was living it up freestyle lost somewhere on the road… Go Pura Vida! Go Pura Vida!). And as if all this failure were still not enough of a let-down for the 14-year-old Ela, my boss* commented a short while ago that I really had great administrative talent and that I should actually count my blessings that I had a little tiny bit of a writing talent, because otherwise I most likely wouldn’t have ended up in a much better position than the one of a personal assistant…

Great administrative talent! I’ve been racking my brain ever since as to whether this was a compliment or an insult… Unfortunately I must admit that my boss isn’t altogether wrong. I kind of do have a soft spot for Excel sheets. I like how they bring structure to my life. How I can sort things chronologically, by date or alphabetically and how everything runs according to plan. So if you were to ask me today about the meaning of ‘freestyle’? Ha… Pura vida and hang loose, my ass!

starring the Brewster slim boyfriend, a 2011 Quiksilver style

Of course I don’t make such declarations without the nostalgic element within me crying for my laid-back, easy-going 14-year-old self to return. I do observe with a certain level of concern that my development, which – if it continues the way it is going right now – will most likely lead straight to a petit-bourgeois bore. I even found myself in a major ‘freestyle’ identity crisis for a brief period. And if it weren’t for two old ladies in the tram recently, who talked about a newspaper report that said wearing our pants too low would lead to adverse health effects – who knows what my boss would have been guilty of provoking with his comment. ‘I always said these snotty little gits should pull up their pants…’ Ha! And I always said that perspectives and values might change, but the adverse health effects of wearing your pants too low stay for a lifetime. And just like that, they are my free ticket to life-long freestyle. Pura vida and hang loose, hell yeah!

*Ironically, Ela’s boss is the Head of Event of an action sports event called «freestyle.ch».

I remember a moment when I was about 14 years old and my pants were hanging so low that, when I was running to the bus stop, it almost made my blood flow strangulate. I still ask myself today, a good 10 years later, how I could have been so ridiculously stupid. Back then I thought I was ridiculously cool. Baggy pants below my arse, gigantic hoodie hanging from my shoulders, a beanie down over my face, and nothing but snowboarding on my mind.

Back then my parents were totally lame, my cross-country-running sisters all the more, and the world did actually belong to me. I had lots of awesomely cool things planned for my life. At various points in time I wanted to spend a year in Whistler or Mammoth or Tahoe as these places seemed so magical on the pictures in my favourite literature at the time (aka Snowboard Magazine). This was where life was at. Snowboarding and parties. All day long. These places were home to the Wildcats, Forum 8, the Grenade Crew and whatever all those snowboard gangs were called. That’s where the world was still ‘freestyle’. Or than another plan was to work for a snowboarding magazine. I obviously was already aware of my moderate snowboarding abilities and that they would hardly lead me to the easy-living lifestyle of a pro career. But as I knew already then that I did have an absolutely captivating talent for writing, I wanted to go for this to guarantee myself my taste of ‘freestyle’.

I also told myself that after my 18^th birthday (legal age seemed to be the ticket to ‘freestyle’ at the time) I’d spend every summer in the southern hemisphere, so that I could actually snowboard every day and all day. Yep… I had big plans. ‘Freestyled’ plans. If you were to have asked me back then what ‘freestyle’ meant for me, I would probably have answered with something like ‘pura vida’ or ‘hang loose’.

(Ela’s column featured in the spring issue of 7sky Magazine)

Has anybody ever noticed how many Self Help books an average Swiss bookshop exhibits? A hell of lot, that’s how many. «Self Confidence In 7 Days,» «Discover Yourself» or «Women’s Self Help.» Well, my opinion of the whole «Self Help» trend is pretty low. Primarily, this is because I’ve read that this whole «focusing on ourselves» debacle is one of the biggest problems in the wealthy western world and that it contributes greatly to our high suicide rate. But, in spite of my aversion to the self-trend I do find browsing through self-help books very amusing and so, I’ve already found myself reading lines such as «Love Yourself And It Won’t Matter Who You Are Married To» or «Listen To Yourself – this will help you build a relationship with the most important person on earth – yourself.» This sentence was pretty much to blame for my decision not to write about my green aunty, who helped introduce specific waste disposal bags in Zurich in the nineties, in my column «Listen To Your Earth» (even though I truly honor my Aunt’s achievements!). No, I decided to undertake a self-test myself.

Listen carefully: Ela spending time with her Earth (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

The initial reason for my self-test was this: a guy that I had never met in my life before, was going to be in a City that lies a good six hours away from Zurich for 12 hours and he suggested that I go and meet him. One could call it a blind date for blithering idiots, as it is pretty nuts to travel six hours on a train, to spend 12 hours with a potential jerk. But then again, I did have a column to write and this self-test I wanted to carry out. And so without even asking, my Earth suddenly started speaking to me. «Do it!» she screamed and «do something irrational and spontaneous you bore!» These may not have been her exact words but even so, the blind date felt kind of right all of a sudden. You know, backed by Mother Earth, fate and all that. At most, this was going to be the wonderful beginning of that amazing love story this guy and I would tell our grandchildren in 50 years to come

I was «acquainted» with this mystery man online. The fact that I chat with complete strangers online probably won’t boost my reputation, but organizing a blind date in a bar does kind of not work per definiton. However, I already knew that he and I had mutual friends, that he shared my passion for board sports and that he was, indeed, attractive. I was – thanks to my Earth – absolutely certain that my self-test was going to be a great success.

Well. The guy seemed to come down with an acute bout of flu the minute I arrived. Whether this was an actual physical condition or simply a reaction to me, we will never know. Anyway, over the next 12 hours, he felt the need to blow his nose every two minutes and his head must have felt like the inside of a pressure cooker. In retrospect, it probably would have been nothing but fair to call the date off. But our return journeys were already booked and so we decided to go ahead with the whole thing. Pretty idiotic really. This guy did turn out to be a jerk, which wasn’t really surprising considering his condition. Yes, I could have shown more understanding but I simply didn’t feel like it as I had just spent six damn hours on a train and all I wanted was a little unconditional romance.

I could not wait to get back on the train to Zurich and curse my Earth as much I could. She retaliated, again unasked, by sticking her tongue out at me, so I responded by beating her up. Then, crying, she admitted that she only did this to me because I was abusing her for my self-test. Her and I ended up having a little talk, which really helped. We are friends again now. Having carried out my self-test now, however, I have come to the conclusion that one should never abuse their Earth, because apparently she is latently unforgiving and she likes getting her own back…

On that note, if you listen to your earth, you have got to listen carefully.

To read more of Ela’s story in German and French go to onto the websie of 7sky Magazine.

As a child I had a terrible habit of staring at people. Not really a bad thing to do in principle. Children are usually forgiven for doing things like that. When kids stare the general opinion is that it’s kind of cute and you tend to stare back and smile.

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Then you say something along the lines of, «Hello there, who are you then?», and usually the child is too bashful to answer so the mother chimes in and says, «Tell the lady who you are, tell her your name is Patrick». So the kid mumbles his name «Pattllick» and continues to stare and you smile back and say, «Nice to meet you Pattlick», or something like that. Anyway, Pattllick is allowed to stare for as long as he likes. But as soon as Pattllick becomes Patrick and starts to grow a beard, his staring is no longer considered as cute; on the contrary. People respond with disgusted looks, his environment reacts with explicit demands that he stop staring immediately. Awful staring pervert! All of a sudden Patrick is socially ostracized for something Pattllick was admired for.

Ela during a shooting in Prague: Let her stare! (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

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Okay, so I didn’t grow a beard, but I went through pretty much the same thing. Somewhere along the line I wasn’t encouraged, but reprimanded by my mother when I started to stare. Why, I do not know until this day, and that is probably why I am still considered as a rather scary crazy woman by the general public; terribly unfair in my opinion. You see, I only stare because I want to study my subjects long enough so that I can make up stories about them in my head. For instance, I start to imagine what their homes might look like, what colour their toilet paper is and whether they would be any good in dancing Salsa. Or I choose an occupation that might suit them and paint a picture in mind of what their family situation is like, or where they might next go on holiday. Most of the time – and I am absolutely certain about this – I make their lives look much better in my imagination than they are in real life, and I think that is a very nice thing to do.

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For example, I was sitting at the airport recently where I noticed a mother and her two daughters. All of them were of Hispanic heritage and because of this I decided to name them Dolores, Arantxa and Carmen. The mother, Dolores, was an androgynous type of woman with a moustache, a rather unshapely behind and her boobs were just a big as the large paella stomach beneath them. Arantxa took after her mother, only she was about 31 sizes smaller. Carmen, I realized, could only be, A: Dolores’ niece or, B: be the daughter of Javier Bardem, because with her 10 and-a-bit years she was more beautiful than the red poppies of Aragon. An older woman sat to the right of Carmen. She was the type of woman that you would never describe as «an older woman» to her face. She was wearing sunglasses that covered her whole face from her chin to her hairline (and we were indoors!) she was talking non-stop on her mobile in impeccable Oxford English. I named her Lesley-Jade. A man in tortoiseshell spectacles was seated to her right; he was about the same age as Dolores, only without the facial hair, but with double the amount of acne scars. His name was Max.

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At one point my imagination got carried away and the following happened:

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Arantxa tripped over Max’s feet and spilled her super sugary Coco Cola all over him and Lesley-Jade. Lesley-Jade jumped up hysterically and accidentally hit the beautiful Carmen. At this point Lesley-Jade discovered Carmen’s incomparable beauty and asked if she could adopt her. Dolores, who desperately needed the money for her facial hair removal procedure, gave her consent. Tortoiseshell-spectacles- Max continued to stay calm in spite of the Coco Cola incident and this impressed Dolores so much that she instantly fell in love with him. They got married only three weeks later and moved to the country taking Arantxa with them. Carmen and her sort-of-Stepmother go and visit them once every month…

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And Voilà! In no time at all I had created an atrocious yet exciting family drama out of a small group of boring people just by staring at them; and at the same time making their worlds a whole lot better. How generous of me. So much for stopping staring, I should be thanked for it!

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Read more of Ela’s columns published in 7sky magazin in German and French on their Website.

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Why is the world constantly stressed out? I know that this is probably not a new trend, but within my circle of friends and relatives this is still taking on a new and slightly alarming form. I call it stress promotion. It’s almost like stress prophylaxis, only different. Contrary to stress prophylaxis, stress promotion does not serve to reduce stress levels. It is more of a self initiated stress enhancement – or at least it appears that way. But who would be so nuts and want more stress? Ha. Self-understanding, my friends! Just recently, Mrs. Ela found herself in the midst of stress promotion, which went something like this: When questioned about my wellbeing, “Phew…” (Rolling of the eyes), “Good!” (Forced smile), “But stressed out…” (Strong exhalation through the mouth combined with shrugging of the shoulders). Done. And it was only then that I noticed, that I wasn’t actually that stressed out, and that the question could have simply been answered with “Good”…

Ela not all that streesed out for once during a shooting with Quiksilver in Prague wearing the Evolution Jacket and the Maritime Slim Straight Jeans (photo: Timo Jarvinen).

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It’s not that I completely deny the possibility of a latent personality disorder, but for this misconduct I clearly blame the temporary fashion of a young, dynamic and successful society, instead of blaming myself. Stress promotion has planted a worm into our social life, which tries to make us believe that being stressed out is chic. As proof, here’s a replay of a meeting between four friends: Hello, hello, peck here, peck there, and the mandatory question round about everyone’s wellbeing. Watch out: This is where the story gets more tragic than Romeo and Juliet. As before, it all starts with “Phew…” (Rolling of the eyes), “Good!” (Forced smile), “But stressed out…” (Strong exhalation through the mouth combined with shrugging of the shoulders). And, as this was a group gathering, three “Oohs…” followed in unison, (compassionate smiles combined with rolling of the eyes) “Me too”. By the way, stress victim no.1 was me, and since we have already clarified my neurosis, it remains to be said that stress victim no. 2 spends three afternoons a week on the golf course, stress victim no. 3 just got back from a long wellness weekend and stress victim no.4 studies journalism without a side job. Oh what stress they must be under.

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Even if stress is a rather subjective matter that cannot be generalized, I still wonder where golf course, wellness and journalism studies without a side job get the idea of being stressed out. And this is where my theory about stress promotion comes in. Namely, I claim that our generation defines itself through the level of stress. It has become a status symbol, so to speak. Something along the lines of “I stress, therefore I am”, and, of course: “the more stress the better.” It’s only recently that I’ve read about young urban people being under such constantly high stress levels that they long for deceleration, which they believe to achieve by falling back on traditional values and rural symbols. Supposedly, we should therefore wear more cow belts, farmer’s frocks and felt hats and go to the mountains. Sounds nuts, but does occasionally help, as my self-test proves. The one about the felt hat is rubbish, probably an evil marketing gag. I did put one on, but the stress promotion remained. Going to the mountains, on the other hand, was very helpful. Up there, people still answer with “Good” when being asked about their wellbeing and don’t look at you in a funny way for not mentioning stress. No kidding. They’re really relaxed up there. It’s about time the snow came, so that golf course, wellness and journalism studies without a side job have a reason to visit the mountains more often.

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Find more of Ela’s columns published in 7sky magazin in German and French on their Website.

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PS: Find the Maritime slim straight jean and the Evolution jacket on sale now!

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I recently had an insight into my life: it’s like non-modern art, a kind of art created at a time when there were no surrealists, expressionists, futurists, pop artists or who ever else had a wish to polish up reality by unrealistic squiggle and supernatural excitement. My life is a picture that comes from a time when artists still had the balls to brutally hold up a mirror to mankind and portray reality just as drop dead boring as it is. Just think of Michelangelo or da Vinci’s work. Mona Lisa mega perfect and the Sistine Chapel super serious. Boom! Humanity, here you have it. There is no extra creative scribble or painted knick-knacks in these pictures. Just desolation and monotony, and it’s almost so sickeningly boring to look at that I personally, at times, end up crying in front of non-modern art, as it shows so clearly how terribly humourless our world is.

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Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the genius movements these doubtlessly inspired and smart men made. But I simply wouldn’t mind living in a modern art piece, something that has less structure and more surprises in it. Something that is a little less serious and more unexpected. But when I look at my life I dare to say yours isn’t that much different. I wouldn’t say it’s all boring, but as a matter of fact, if one would reconstruct an average day within my 24 years of existence, there wouldn’t be much extraordinary happening. There would be an alarm clock that goes off at 6.30am, an Ela who would refuse to get up, most likely arrive late at work, drink bad 50-cent office coffee to get through a day full of computer work and a bad sandwich lunch. Then, leave the office to return home again, maybe read a book, write a column or admire my absolutely captivating walk <in closet with all the great Quiksilver pieces in it (this actually is my daily highlight!), eat dinner, brush my teeth, go to the toilet and sleep just to get up to the same deal again the next morning… Hallelujah! That’s what I mean, just as boring as an ancient piece of art.

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Since this insight, I have regularly been picturing myself on the knees of Mona Lisa, and suddenly, it struck me that the only way to add more spice to my life was to have this Mona Lisa look a little more unblemished. Now I have been thinking of any kind of interference that would bring consistent inconsistent to my life. Some sort of red splash I would regularly paint on Mona Lisa’s forehead. Something that would simply make my days a little less monotonous… Now what if loudspeakers in trains would announce recipes instead of the names of the next stops. Or what if fast food restaurants would show instructions of washing machines instead of these ugly neon sign photos of their menus. Or what if flags would hang up side down in public places. Or if some people would dance from A to B instead of walk. Or how about some that would answer their phones with the current weather forecast instead of simple “hellos”… Call me crazy, I just wouldn’t mind some more scrawling in my life…

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Ela

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Scrawling for a better life. Ela in the Evolution Jacket, the Complications Shirt and the Maritime Slim Straight Jeans (photo : Timo Jarvinen)

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We have big dreams when we are kids. I, for example, dreamed of being a beauty queen. Miss Switzerland or something, which, yes, doesn’t really speak for me as a child. Today I blame this emotional fuddle on the black incisor that I got from a gross-motor incompetence incident. I managed to fall in a supermarket and hit my jaw right on a shopping trolley, which ended in a black milk incisor. My childhood friends took advantage of my clumsiness and made me take over the unpopular character of the ugly old lady in any role-playing. «Who’s playing the witch?» they would say, «Let’s have Ela be the witch, she’s got a black tooth…» Kids can be bastards, and you might want to call it a cheep excuse, but I do blame this black tooth and my mean childhood friends for my infantile beauty queen trauma.
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Luckily I got to reconsider my rather pathetic beauty queen dream when my second set of teeth brought me a new and shiny white incisor. My black-toothed ugly duckling days were over, and the beauty queen dream went out of focus. Looking back today makes me realize that I might have changed my dreaming to something – let’s call it – slightly more intellectual, but in its essential features it stayed the same. I dreamed of being an adult and I dreamed of being able to do what I wanted to do every day and all day (such as talking of world peace all day long in my beauty queen years… No need to understand!). No more orders from teachers, moms, dads, siblings or any other kind of person of authority… I remember I spent days fantasizing about this one moment that would stand for freedom, this one moment I would finish school, say good-bye to teachers and exams and tests of any kind. I dreamed of how great it would feel, of how much the world would belong to me, and of how much I would enjoy it…
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Now what if this moment comes and all that happens is nothing? No scales that fall of your eyes. No irreplaceable feeling of relief that clears all your unanswered questions at once. Nothing, that happens, but your clock ticking like it did for the past twenty something years? Well, I finished my studies a week ago. I said good-bye to my professors and tutors. I said good-bye to exams and tests of any kind. I said good-bye to the University building knowing I’d never enter it again. But all that happened was nothing… Tough cookies!
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I don’t know if it should have frustrated me that the day I had been looking forward to for most of my life went down my history as just another day, it sure was a little ironic. I had spent my days dreaming of this one moment and when I got to experience it, I forgot what exactly I thought would be so magic about it. Instead, I couldn’t help having my mind wander back to the moment all the dreaming started and thinking of how nice life was when all these authorities were taking care of any and all kinds of decisions for me…  I guess our perspectives on things change, and things we dream of might no longer be all that dreamful once we achieve them. But if it’s only for dreaming keeping us going, if we dream, we have to dream big!
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Ela

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If we dream, we have to dream big! Ela in the San Felipe Creek Skirt and the Salt Creek Cami (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

I don’t like to be a cliché as far as my femininity is concerned, but I’m just not much of a football fan. I simply can’t understand the fascination with 22 farts running after a ball. Plus, I’m really tired of having the offside rule explained to me. I don’t think I will ever get it, no need to remind me of my own stupidity whenever a football game is coming up. I don’t like to be stupid, and that’s probably mostly why I don’t like football. So whenever my football-loving friends go out to watch a game, I’m doing my best to avoid their company.

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I wouldn’t say disliking football is a general problem, as I’m not the only human, and definitely not the only human trapped in a female body, that feels like this. During the Champions League, for example, I have plenty of fellow-sufferers out there that would rather spend the evening in a cinema watching an intellectually stimulating independent movie than get smashed observing a green field and two white gates in a sports bar. However, with the World Cup currently taking place, this problem of disliking football becomes a whole different ball game, as form some reason, suddenly the whole world turns crazy for football. Going out with friends, unless it’s for watching World Cup games, becomes impossible. People with an aversion to football are put into a socially forced solitary confinement for four long-lasting weeks (due to repeat every four years). And the only way to escape this state of isolation is to somehow develop affection towards the green field, the white goals or the 22 running farts.

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In saying that, on closer inspection one day, I found that these 22 running farts turned out to be well-trained, well-toned male beings and suddenly there was a part of football I quite liked. From then on, I focused on games that covered Chile, Sweden, Portugal or Spain, as these teams seem to feature the highest quantity players that suit my taste. It was only for about three games, however, that I managed to trick my mind and escape my social isolation and spend the night watching football with my friends without being bored to death. The fourth game caused that familiar feeling of boredom to creep back in, pretty much as soon as the players’ presentation during the national anthems was over. When I then saw that the second woman in this group of friends was yawning already, too, I decided that there had to be a solution to prevent us females from a month of loneliness in future four-years-intervals.

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Now here’s what I thought should change for football to cover the expectations of women: The players’ presentation should be held at the beginning and end of the game. TV cameras should stop focusing on the ball, and instead show close-ups of the best-looking players throughout the whole game, and as a result, cameras only need to cover goals if either the goalkeeper or the scorer belongs to the best-looking players. The part in which the two teams exchange their t-shirts should be repeated during the game every five minutes, at least. Oh, and offside, fouls or delay of the game (they need to take time to change their shirts, right?) should no longer be considered against the rules… Now this might be a lot to change, but not only would these new rules guarantee women will enjoy watching the sport more, but the inexistence of the offside rule would also make heated discussions about incompetent referees redundant…

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Now one should still claim that if women owned football, this world wouldn’t be a better world… Cheers to that, girls!

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Ela

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Time to revolutionize Football! Ela in the Bombay Beach Romper. (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

I like to think of myself as a good girl. Not perfect or absolutely unblemished, but good. Everybody’s darling. A big-hearted young female you simply got to like. One that doesn’t break hearts, or let people down, and doesn’t do things that jar with the general understanding of a good human being. Yes, when I think of myself I like to focus on the good qualities and prefer to ignore the bad ones.

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Don’t ask me why I do this exactly. I’m convinced a character is something that is assembled from both good and bad experiences over the years. And looking back on the short record of my life, I will even admit that I’ve probably learned more from my bad girl than my good girl moments. For some reason, these have formed me more. They are the ones that are mostly responsible for what I am today. So why in the world would I want to suppress them so greatly and only focus on my history as a good girl when describing myself?

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Don’t get me wrong. I mean, true, I might have stolen my sister’s chocolate Easter bunnies when we were kids and I think I once peed in a pool when I was twelve - an age when I would have been perfectly aware of my body’s urge to urinate. I’m definitely not Mother Theresa, but I’m not a bad girl either. And therefore, until recently, I’ve never forgot to tell myself that and I successfully believe it, too.

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Well, I must have thought about it too much as my bad past (that doubtlessly exists) for some reason recently decided to haunt me in my dreams. Somehow, three broken hearts (two belonging to really good male friends, one to an unholy affaire) that all go on me, managed to team up in my subconscious and torture me throughout a long night of awful screaming and terrible perspiring. They provided the living proof that my bad girl track record might still comprise a little more than just a stolen chocolate Easter bunny and a pee in a pool, and I couldn’t just let it pass by me.

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When I told my girlfriends about it, they admitted they knew what I was talking about. They also liked to think of themselves as good girls, successfully suppressing their bad past and focusing on the good. Although it made me feel better to know I wasn’t the only one polishing up their history, I could still not understand why we do this.

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Until this morning that is, when I shared a train compartment with a grandmother and her granddaughter. The grandmother was telling her granddaughter some story from her past, which immediately transported me back to my own childhood with my Grandma and her vivid anecdotes. What I never questioned until today is why all of my Grandma’s stories were always so amazingly romantic and so painfully ideal that even a high-gloss Photoshopped billboard would have turned green with envy. Was it really possible my Grandma had been this good as a girl?

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I still don’t doubt she was, hey, she’s my Grandma. But I must admit that I’ve started asking myself if she, too, might have found a way to suppress the bad and focus on the good, just as my girlfriends and I are doing today. And honestly, if my Grandma did so, I wouldn’t blame her. How drab would my childhood have been without all my Grandma’s good girl stories? So, if for nothing else, we owe it to our granddaughters to suppress the bad and keep telling ourselves that we are good girls, even if we sometimes slip up.

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Ela

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Bad girl or good girl? Ela in the Riverside Top and the Sunside Denim Short (photo: Timo Jarvinen).

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A couple of years ago I ended up on a flight with Bill Kaulitz, the lead singer of the German teeny band ‘Tokio Hotel’. He is known to get thirteen-year-old girls with very bright eye shadow screaming as if there was no tomorrow. Bill Kaulitz is today what Back Street Boys’ Nick Carter used to be back in the day. The only difference: Bill looks more like Ozzy Osbourne and Marylin Manson combined than the perfect son in law, which means he needs to make up for the lack of his look with something else. At the time I was on this flight, Bill wasn’t even that big a deal: Tokio Hotel had just released their first album and girls had only started to fall like dominos. But Bill already acted as if he knew under aged femals would through their underwear at him like unpredictable maniacs some day. And although he looked painfully ridiculous with his shiny Mohawk and massive sunglasses (which I still believe were fake D&G’s), I couldn’t help being impressed by his attitude. He made people on the plane turn heads and stare at him, and I’m quite sure it wasn’t only because some wondered if he was a kindergarten kid forced to wear Tommi Lee’s wardrobe. Despite not having much respect for Bill’s music skills, he did blow my mind by showing me that no matter how ridiculously miss-dressed and weird looking you are, as long as your attitude fits, you can pull it off.

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Cleaning pools? It's all about the attitude... Ela in the Bombay Beach Romper. (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

I myself must say that I hate to be under or overdressed. I like to combine my cloth to form total trash to tomboy chic to elegant, depending on what the day might bring. Reproach me for not having my own unique style, but I just love the whole range of fashion on offer out there and hate to limit myself to a particular type of wardrobe. This quirk combined with my spontaneity has got me into fancy cocktail parties in laced leather boots, to super hip DJ gigs in worn out running shoes or to barbecues by the lake in spangled platforms. If I bump into people in town asking me spontaneously to go somewhere, I usually can’t just bail out… no matter what I’m wearing. In short: I have a tendency to end up as a visual bull in a china shop or a china doll in a bull shed. And since I don’t like feeling misplaced, I’ve had to develop my own attitude strategies over the years to cope with it. Let’s call it the Kaulitz fraud. It’s pretty simple as I basically just put on the look the situation would ask for no matter what I’m wearing… Arrogant grin in laced leather boots at the fancy cocktail party for example, or red cheek mountain girl smile in the spangled platforms at the barbecue by the lake…

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Up until now, I must say that these strategies have worked pretty well for me and since people tend to spend money on any kind of workshop these days, I recently started wondering if I could get rich by offering attitude seminars to others. A friend of mine became my first test person when she received a last minute invite to a job interview the other day. The fact that her make-up and her outfit weren’t perfectly suitable for a job interview made her terribly nervous. But she didn’t have time to get changed or re-do her make-up, which provided me with the perfect opportunity to give her a crash course in my attitude workshop and introduce her to the Kaulitz fraud…

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Whether it was my advice or not, my friend got the job, and I got a super ugly kids t-shirt saying ‘Miss Attitude’ on it in reward. The t-shirt is yellow, glittering and just so terribly hideous that it doesn’t even deserve a place in my amazingly exquisite wardrobe, but as I said, it’s not about the clothing; it’s all about the attitude… Did I mention my friend wants me to wear glittery yellow to my next five-course dinner party? The Kaulitz fraud might be facing its first serious endurance test…

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Ela

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Meet Miss Attitude!