Cleveland is where the t-shirt went to die...

Some call it irresponsible. Some call it materialistic. My dad might even call it destructive spending habits. However you want to slice it, I have an addiction and it involves clothing.

I spend multiple hours a day thinking about, buying, planning and accessorizing outfits. It’s not about having the most expensive clothes or the newest, latest and greatest purse. The deal is, I want to have on the most appropriate outfit for the given occasion. I want it to be a representation of who I am (or who Blair is) and I want to think back on a particular event and remember what I wore. (Call it shallow. I don’t care.) I never want it to be too obvious. Like art, I want a subtle theme to my ensemble. No red on Christmas. No nautical strips on a boat. And NO beret in Paris! Today, for example, I went with ‘Spring Chic.’ (Navy blue cardigan, puffy, bright, multi-colored skirt, and cork wedges.) I am happy and I feel good. You know those days when you wake up late and throw something on, and the whole day you feel awkward in your outfit? I hate that. I once wore a sweater under a jumper. It was a problem.

I can’t paint. I am no poet. I can’t sing. What I have is a little bit of my own fashion sense. It’s my way of putting a little bit of me out in the world for people to nibble on. Whether people think it is fabulous or a huge miss, my clothes are a scrapbook of memories. The J Crew dress from my sister’s wedding when my dad and I did the worm across the dance floor. The orange tunic I wore when my adorable little niece was born. Laura Ashley bubbles at Higgins Lake that got wet when the neighbor boy threw me off the dock, and the red sweater I wore when my dad went in for surgery. Each thing is still hanging in my closet telling a story.

My dad always says that you begin to be a sell out when you let your possessions define who you are. I like to think that I define my possessions. But there are those people who feel like they are far too important to sink to caring about what they look like. My dad’s girlfriend once said “I don’t want to be friends with anyone that would judge me based on what I look like.” Well, that’s why she has no friends. The lack of effort that boxer shorts and a tank top convey screams “I am a lazy slob.” No one wants to go out for drinks with a lazy slob. I always think of that scene from Devil Wears Prada when Meryl Streep’s character says to her intern:

“You think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you choose that lumpy blue sweater because you're trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back….That blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and so it's sort of comical how you think that you've made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you're wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room.”

With that, my advice for the day is put a little effort in. Take off the hooded sweatshirt and cargo shorts and put on a shirt with a collar. Put on some heels and a skirt, or even just a little lip gloss. Society will thank you. I will thank you….