Fashionist-ugh

Yes, this is my child.  He has inherited, through nature or nurture we don't know, my tragic fashion sense.  I came by it quite honestly.  I can't blame my mother; her taste is impeccable.  In the same way my father tried to condition me into a marathon runner, my mother steeped me in the joys of retail therapy.  Every failure of mine in life came with a validated parking stub at the Crossroads Mall and a crisp, new pair of the latest jeans as a consolation.  Every success was marked with a celebratory trip to Nordstrom for a consultation at the Lancome counter and maybe a pair of Polo socks, their smug horse logos meant to mark me as a winner.

All Mom's effort might have turned me into a successful shopper, if only it hadn't made my feet so tired.  If my dad thought a marathon was hard, he obviously never shopped with my mom.  For the same reasons Freestone "would rather be buried alive than practice violin," my mother's efforts to turn me into a fashionista backfired just a tad.  The smell of retail still makes me itchy, physically and emotionally.  Most notable among our mother-daughter shopping exploits are:  The time I literally fainted from hunger in Saks Fifth Avenue and the time my mom broke a rib and still went to the Nordstrom Semi-Annual Sale the next day.  All you people with your race stickers on your car windows, you ain't got nuthin' on my mom.  She is a warrior.

Before my girlfriends' trip, Scott came home bearing a big bag of new clothes for me.  In true Dopp fashion, he also came bearing a story about how "it was all on clearance, and then I had a 30% off coupon."  Only when Scott or my mom shop for me do I look presentable, and sometimes not even then.

On the trip, two separate women went out of their way to run after me, lunge at me, to inform me that there was a tag on my shirt.  While it was kind of them to exert themselves, I was thinking, "So what?"  It's not like it was a scorpion or something.  I thanked them both, but what I really wanted to say was, "AND my husband got 30% off the clearance price on this tag.  Can you believe that?"  I know, irrelevant information at a time like that, when I was in mortal danger of being seen with a tag hanging off my shirt.  My priorities are clearly out of whack.

However, I do have to pat myself on the back (at risk of finding an errant tag) for the clever way I surround myself with beautiful people (Scott, Coco, Bill - Coco dresses him - my kids, my friends, Scott's family, Emily, Lexie) who not only make me look better by association, but take pity on me and give me, if not actual clothes, fashion tips like "Wait, don't go out!  You're not wearing any pants," or "Did you mean to put on two different shoes?"  Thanks, team.  I could never do it without you.  I hope to reciprocate one day.  Here's what I'll do for you:  Bring me two seemingly mismatched socks and I'll tell you how they match.  It's not all about color, you know.  There are secrets, and I know them all.