My Fashion Horror

Last night, in a moment of apparent severe weakness, I managed to watch Project Runway, a reality show pitting would-be fashion designers against each other.

I’m not exactly the fashion type. I wear Carhartts and t-shirts every day. I practically wouldn’t know a cocktail dress from a ball gown.

But there I was last night, watching a bunch of catty designer/contestants tasked with turning ugly bridesmaid’s dresses into something the women who owned them would gladly wear out for a night on the town.

I didn’t like most of the people on the show. They were catty, bitchy, prissy, full of themselves, full of affectations. Drama queens, mostly. The worst punishment anyone could inflict on me would be to force me to go to a party with these highfalutin fashion plates.  Still, I watched. Everyone likes train wrecks, right?

Now on to the horror part. I accurately predicted which outfit the judges would like the most and which they would hate the most. I also completely agreed with their assessments of the contestants’ fashion prowess.

susan boyle

Imagine, me, designing womens’ fashion.  I’d probably come up with something combining Timberland boots, a flannel shirt with its sleeves cut off, Fruit of the Loom underwear and frayed Wrangler jeans.

Turning me into a fashion maven would be  like taking an extremely frumpy women from Wales, putting her on a stage, ordering her to sing and finding out she’s has one of the most stunning voices in the world.

Oh, wait. That’s been done.

Well, anyway,  I’d like to assure everyone that I PROMISE to stick to my Carhartts and t-shirts, thank you very much. 

Besides, I’m probably allergic to chiffon.

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