First, some minor background info: I love What Not to Wear. It’s been one of my top 3 favorite shows for as long as I can remember. I watched it when it was Wayne Scot Lukas instead of Clinton Kelly. I’ve seen Stacy London through all of her hairstyle changes, and not only is she on my list of people to meet but she also solidifies my belief that just because a heel is 4 inches too high and painful as shit does not mean that it should be thrown to the depths of my closet. I’ve forced many a boy to sit and watch it with me, which I realize might be a torturous thing to do, but hey, if he doesn’t like it, there’s the door. The bottom line is, watching this show has turned me into a highly judgmental fashion critic. Watching this show has inserted the phrase, “Shut up!” into my everyday vocabulary. Watching this show has turned me into a conniving nightmare.
The whole premise of What Not to Wear is that a person dresses horrifically (usually due to some deep-seated self-esteem issues), an embarrassed family member nominates them, Bozo the Clown gets secretly followed around by cameras for two weeks, then Stacy and Clinton arrive at their doorstep with $5000 to completely redo their wardrobe. Now I’m sorry that Marla Mae was moo’d at her entire life and even though she lost 150 lbs she still sees herself as the Michelin Man, but I think we can all agree that after the team works their magic on her, she’ll go right back to the $6 t-shirt table at Wal-Mart. Not everyone is cut out to be a fashionista. Suddenly, Marla’s stuck with a $350 suede blazer that’ll never again see the light of day, and we all have to act surprised that the $600 black patent peep-toes don’t fit her busy Idahoan homemaker lifestyle after all. Spare me.
You know who could use $5000 worth of new clothes? This girl. Now unfortunately I have pretty on-point fashion sense. I’m no style star by any means, but I dress cute and I try new things and my shoe collection is becoming quite enviable. In summary, I would never be accepted on the show as-is, which is why the following plan came about: I go to Good Will, stock up on all the hideous Tweety bird t-shirts, elastic-waist biker shorts, and Southpole hoodies I can get my hands on (size XXL? Don’t mind if I do!), and get down to the biz. I’d have a trusty friend nominate me, saying, “I know she’s a beautiful person on the inside, I just wish she would put more effort into her appearance so everyone else could see it!” Suddenly, Stacy and Clinton would interrupt my Chinese Art and Architecture class to let me know that I’ll be bringing my entire wardrobe to New York City, where they’ll throw everything away and send me off onto the streets with rules and style tips and of course, the $5000 card. I’d come home with great new clothes, new hair, new makeup, and a new outlook on life…an outlook that would go straight to the boxes under my bed where my real clothes were hidden. My closet would be tripled!
I realize this plan sounds rather selfish and immoral, but I could really care less. Marla is happy with her tapered Mom jeans, and I say, more power to her! She can keep her I Love Lucy pajama pants and the “I give up” ponytail; I’m still in my prime, and damnit, I want to celebrate it with a pair of killer Christian Louboutins. If I have to lie and cheat my way there, so be it.
I'm comin for you two...