As a woman, I am sort of a disappointment in some areas. Fashion is one of them. I mean, I don’t think I am a walking fashion disaster, not like someone you would see on People of Walmart, but the truth is many of my garments came from Walmart’s classier cousin: Target.

I don’t know squat about fashion. When the topic comes up, I gaze at what are probably considered really out dated shoes, and shift my weight from foot to foot until the subject is either changed or people walk away because they suspect I am brain-damaged. I would be hard pressed to name more than five fashion designers, unless they have had a line at Target, then I’ve probably heard of them . . . maybe.

I think fashion just requires me to exert too much energy. My creativity regarding my outfits went the way of Contempo Casuals, it does not exist anymore. I’ve been told I have a “look.” It usually revolves around dresses, boots and some kind of jewelry I found in the bottom of my drawer. While I appreciate the sentiment, my “look” is really more of a uniform; it requires as little thought as possible. I mean, a dress is practically the equivalent of a baby’s onsie, but for a grown woman.

It’s not that I don’t want to look good and buy new things; it’s just that shopping makes me want a drink. And once I get that drink, well I would prefer to just hang out and shoot the shit than shop. I’ve put one of my most fashionable friends, Shannon, on notice that when I get rich she has to quit whatever she is doing and come be my personal shopper and stylist. I’m not sure, but I don’t think she is banking on this career move.

Did someone say banking? Oh, that brings me to my next fashion fear: the price tag. Look, I realize I was primarily raised by people who were products of the depression era and that I might have inherited some sort of cheap skate gene, but I when I see a pair of shoes that cost about as much as most people’s mortgage, I turn into that guy from Sanford & Son and start clasping my heart.

My inaptitude for fashion really is a bit of a handicap. While getting ready for an event, many women think to themselves, “What will I wear?” and by that they mean: “Which of my cute  and utterly appropriate for this event outfits will I rock this evening?”  Me? I am literally thinking of who I can call to borrow a dress and wondering why in the hell a thirty-something year old grown ass woman does not own a pair of black pumps? Something needs to be done.

I am going to go cry in my closet now, but I leave you with this. This is what I love and adore about fashion, it can get really weird: