ADHD, Autism and me: TikTok's Outfit Of The Day

I found myself on TikTok recently. People said I should but I didn’t fancy it. Too addictive for this ND wiring, the sensory overload a welcome mat to the ticks that accompany my autistic life and surely the Chinese state involvement a threat to my side hustle as Moneypenny’s handbag buffer? But like a scroll of insistence somehow I found myself lured in, the attraction of live pick ‘n’ mix-ing from Jeff’s shed, subtitled dogs acting out, Romford Market loo roll deals and Nana’s dancing like Gary Barlow (or is it Barlow dancing like Nana?) impossible to resist.

Apparently, Queenie and I were made for TikTok. The random nonsense we spill out onto our socials and 1BTN airwaves just the ticket. But what kind of ticket? We tried the whore out the dog, we attempted the dances, we raised the political and we shared the historical. But the thing that’s swung us the endless K’s? The stuff of TikTok Wildblood and Queenie dreams? The freebies we didn’t know we needed? The mentions in the coffee shop? Outfit of the day. Outfit of the bloody day. Us in an outfit. Every day. Two aging queer dears who really should know better giving the world a twirl. Once a day. Like social(s) work.

Inspired by Aki and Koichi we got to TikTok, sharing the stream of second-hand, hoarded and kept just-in-case garments we’ve collected over the years. The wonky tee’s and statement footie shirts, the Norman Cook-esque shirts, and the vintage jumble sale tailoring. Somehow it worked. Saving nothing for best. The young queer TikTokers embracing our elderly selves and our #ootd

Of course, this autistic soul is appreciative, the structure of the daily challenge essential, a new special interest ticked, my so hard to find hyperfocus actually engaged, but alongside the joy comes the dread, a new form of mirror I find hard to glance upon, the self-doubt and physical loathing my buggered body always creates. To declare oneself happy with the age one is as kids young enough to be your grandchild send appreciation is odd. Especially when you can’t help but zoom in on that wrinkle, those infamous MRF Wildblood frown lines, that particular pair of cake meets prescription meds created tree trunks you’d hoped you could hide but, oh no, here comes shorts season.

Yes, it’s a lesson in looking I’m finding it hard to manage. A new reach. A new reason to be comfortable in a neurodiverse skin that would normally only desire the same two textually pleasing outfits day after day after day. I like patterns, I really like patterns. The same today, tomorrow, yesterday. Food, Clothes. Life. I don’t like change. But this? Something different every day? This feels like a manageable change. One that won’t last obviously (the hyperfocus never does, my brain is notoriously bad for sticking to anything other than routine) but one that’s bringing a sense of (almost) stylish purpose as Queenie and I raid the loft for those long-forgotten clothes we’ve always felt too shy to show off. Yes this OOTD thing is alright. It’s no emperor’s new clothes but its ensuring Queenie and I deliver that thing we promised each other as we hit our 50s. Be more peacock darling, always be more peacock.

Time to post another Wildblood and Queenie OOTD. And work out how to make it pay. One Bronski Beat dance at a time.

If you must we're here. https://www.tiktok.com/@wildbloodandqueeniedj