Wednesday, July 21, 2004

What Not To Wear

There's a TV show called "What Not to Wear" that I really get a kick out of watching. Perhaps it's because I can empathize with the poor schleps who get unmercifully taunted every week by Stacy and Clinton, the show's fashion experts.

Stacy and Clinton scope out a person who dresses in a style that most people would classify as "comfortable" and then secretly videotape that person in the most unflattering positions imaginable: bending over, getting out of the car, yawning and stretching, adjusting underwear. Even a fashion model would look less than stunning in those situations.

Finally, Clinton and Stacy ambush the unsuspecting victim and show her (or, on occasion, "him") the embarrassing video. Just as the person is on the verge of suing them for invasion of privacy, they make amends by handing her/him a complimentary credit card worth $5000 toward the purchase an entire new wardrobe.

The catch is that the person's current wardrobe must be tossed out, and Stacy and Clinton have to oversee the purchase of the new one (in New York City, no less) just to make certain that the person doesn't rush out and buy 150 pairs of sweat pants.

When I first started watching the show, I thought it might be fun to get $5,000 worth of clothes for nothing other than a bit of national humiliation and a few close-ups of my cellulite, but after several weeks of observing Stacy and Clinton in action, I changed my mind. The two of them are, well...pretty brutal.

"Did you get dragged behind a stagecoach while wearing that outfit?" Clinton asks as he critically eyes one of the victim's baggy sweater and pants.

“Tell your great-grandmother she can have her sweater back!" Stacy adds. She and Clinton share a wicked cackle.

They then proceed to snatch the clothes from the victim and toss them into a trash barrel, which just happens to be sitting in the middle of their living room.

"But my dying aunt gave me that skirt on her deathbed," the victim protests as they crumple a plaid, woolen skirt and heave it, as if it were a basketball, into the trash can.

"Well, too bad your dying aunt didn't have better taste in clothes!" Clinton, who is wearing a purple flowered shirt, snaps.

The whole thing is pretty intimidating, but what I find the most intimidating is Stacy and Clinton's obsession with legs.

"Why are you hiding your legs in pants?" they ask all of the women. "Would it kill you to wear a skirt now and then and show the world that you actually have ankles and calves?"

Whenever they say that, which is just about every week (except when their victim is a guy) I think of my mother-in-law, who keeps reminding me that she hasn't seen me in a skirt since Amelia Earhart last boarded a plane.

Okay, so maybe I haven't worn a skirt or a dress since gasoline was 59 cents a gallon. But there are several good reasons for my anti-skirt attitude.

First of all, my legs have all the shapeliness of two telephone poles. My ankles are so thick, my lifetime goal has been to be able to wear an ankle bracelet without having to add four extra inches of links to it. I've received only two "nice legs" compliments in the past 20 years, and one of them was from a farmer who was at least 85 years old and probably had spent too much time staring at cows.

I also hate shaving my legs, so I do it as infrequently as possible. At my age, it's a safety precaution anyway. I can't tell you how many "saggy" body parts I've accidentally nicked with the razor while bending over in the shower to shave my legs.

And then there are these creepy things called spider veins. I guess they call them that because they supposedly resemble little purple spiders on your legs. But on my legs, the spiders look as if they've also built webs...and caught flies in them.

And I have a deep scar on my knee from back in my grammar-school days, when I was swinging on a swing on the school playground and Michael St. Pierre decided to sneak up behind me and yank me off by my feet, just as I was way up in the air.

I suppose that really thick, opaque black stockings might solve most of my problems. At least they would hide the leg hair, the veins and the scars. They wouldn't, however, turn my tree-trunks into long, shapely legs or allow me to finally wear an ankle bracelet.

Still, I haven't worn a skirt for so long, I'm not even sure which length is "in" right now. Knee length? Mid-calf length? "I see London, I see France" length?

To heck with Stacy and Clinton, even if they ARE fashion experts. Give me the 150 pairs of sweat pants.