I wasn't sure that I liked Michelle Obama's yellow gown when I first saw it on CNN this morning. I guess I figured she would wear a jewel tone---an emerald or fuschia. The yellow/gold color surprised me. The more I looked at it, the more I liked it--and apparently, all the fashionistas have declared it to be a success.
Really, I don't know why I even try to talk about clothing and fashion. I am not a clothes horse. I have begged---begged---friends, acquaintances, strangers to submit my name to TLC's What Not To Wear. I would take all sorts of abuse to have Clinton and Stacy dump my pathetic wardrobe in the trash can, then set me loose on the streets of NYC with a 5,000 gift card. I really, really need it, because I have no idea how to dress myself.
I, like most women in America, have body issues. I also get overwhelmed way too easily. So, set me loose in a store and I freak out. There are too many colors, too many styles. Good Grief, jeans alone have a vocabulary that drives me to drink. Skinny? Boot Cut? Boyfriend Cut? What the hell? Apparently, there are jeans designed to be worn with heels. Who knew? I. Just. Hate. It.
If I manage to wade through the clusterfuck (which is a new favorite word of mine--sorry Mom) of labels, brands, and designs, I still need to find something that fits. Which brings back the body issues. If something doesn't fit, or if I see the tell-tale muffin top spill over the hem of the jeans, I generally say, "Fuck it," and go home empty handed, instead of trying a different size or style. See no evil, hear no evil. Denial is a wonderful place to live.
Except---I have no clothes. I only get clothes when my mother buys them for me. Now that I've reproduced, Mom has channeled her shopping energy into the boys, leaving me to fend for myself. And, since I've said the f-word TWICE in a single post, I won't be getting ANYTHING, unless they start making clothes my size at Gymboree.
Thus, I wear a University of Arizona sweatshirt and torn jeans five days a week. It's just easier to avoid the whole nightmare.
Friends think I'm joking when I say that I need them to take me shopping and tell me what to wear. It's no joke. I am an adult that cannot function in a dressing room.
Instead, I'll sit in the living room, wearing the blue and red U of A hoodie with pajama bottoms, judging Michelle Obama's style.