I don’t get to watch much television these days, but occasionally at the end of the day, after I’ve put Sean to bed, I’ll flip through the channels and end up watching part of an episode of What Not To Wear. Do y’all ever watch that show? Isn’t it fascinating? Two snotty condescending people insult you, throw your clothes away, make you cry and then force you to buy uncomfortable shoes. And inevitably they jump out from behind a rack of clothes at a department store and scare the puddin’ out of you. Fashion + Fear = Fun!
I am fascinated by this show for many reasons, but mostly because I do not understand these people who are emotionally attached to their sorry clothes. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen Stacy and some poor schmuck tearfully playing tug of war with a ratty sweater. My theory is that these people are the same kids who drug around their blankie until they were 11. I was not one of those kids. I never had a blankie. But then again, I may have attachment issues. On the other hand, if a tornado came through and wiped out my entire collection of broom skirts and Brighton belts, I would be able to skip the grief counseling.
Anyway, I’m thinking about all of this because one recent Sunday morning, after I had tried on no less than four different outfits to wear to church, I was thinking about submitting my own application to What Not To Wear. Now before you go all holy roller on me, it’s not like I was trying to show off and dress to the nines or anything like that. I was aspiring to dress maybe to the twos which is one step above pajama bottoms and slippers. I am hopelessly out of step with the now generation (as evidenced by the fact that I just used the term “now generation”) and believe that you should at least be dressed to the twos when attending church – that means no pajama bottoms and no cleavage and I’m not really all that keen on blue jeans.
Anyway, like most Americans, I have a closet full of clothes. But all of my stuff a) doesn’t fit, b) is hopelessly out of date, c) was purchased when I was temporarily insane, d) is hideous, e) has been worn so much it is sad, sad, sad and f) all of the above.
So on that particular Sunday morning, I was in my closet, knee deep in a pile of a, b, c, d, e and f – and I was thinking that if Stacy London were in my closet, I would not be playing tug of war with her over a broom skirt. I would not be crying. No, I’d be standing in the trash can stomping it all down to make sure there was room for everything.
And then I’d kick her out of my closet and call in Big Mama who would preface her insults with “Bless your little ole heart” as all good southern women do.
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