I Know What Not To Wear. I Just Choose To Wear It Anyway.

The signs are always the same. The series of odd questions slipped into seemingly normal conversations. What size shoe are you? What’s your exact height? You know what would be fun, being on TV! Have you ever been on TV before? Followed by the series of “candid” photos taken in order to “test their camera.” It has happened to me three times of which I am aware, I am expecting this to bring a few more out of the woodwork. I have been submitted to What Not To Wear.

The first two occasions, I was admittedly a bit bent out of shape. Then on the third go-round I looked down at my ill-fitting jeans and stained t-shirt and said to myself, “Okay, let’s do this thing!” After all, they give you a bunch of new clothes that look awesome on you, right? I’ve never been one to pass up a free gift, no matter how insulting the packaging. I committed to my fashion nightmares with everything I had. I trolled around in items purchased solely for themed parties. I found every quirky object in my closet and accented them with mismatched jewelry. It was like a “worst of” special. Go big or go home! Yet despite my better efforts, I still did not get selected. Perhaps the smart people at TLC caught on to my game? Or maybe there were actually people still dressing worse than me?!?!

Either way, I have since realized I don’t belong on What Not To Wear. I know what not to wear. I just choose to wear it anyway. I watch the CW, I see mannequins in storefronts, I am not blind to the world around me. I have simply chosen a lifestyle that favors comfort over fashion. I live by my own code. I know I am not supposed to wear flip flops to a fancy club, but how is a girl supposed to dance if her feet are bleeding? I know jeans are not intended to be five inches too long, but who has the time or finance for a tailor? I know it is culturally unacceptable to wear a shirt with a hole in it, but I will inevitably spill something red on it within the hour anyway.

I can sense some of you are squirming and calling The Fashion Police. I’m okay with that… so long as they give me free stuff. Preferably jeans of proper length, magical pain-free heels and shirts made of that fancy fabric that doesn’t absorb stains. I will also accept cash.

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