Fashion Police — I really don’t want this job

I live in a town that attracts a lot of tourists. Ours is a rather funky, arty community, and it’s as tolerant a place as I’ve ever witnessed. Whether you’re a local who’s lived her for years or a visitor just stopping by to explore the incredible beauty of this region, you can get away with wearing just about anything. If you’re sporting waist-length dreadlocks and layer upon layer of hippie duds, no one gives you a second glance. If you’re decked out in plaid bermudas with dark socks and sandals, no one cares. Sigh…except me.

After living in LA, I’m frequently taken aback by the things I see on the street. LA has a fashion sense all its own, and a lot of style atrocities are committed in an attempt to embrace the latest trends. There, people often try too hard. Here, they don’t try hard enough.

I know it shouldn’t bother me…I wish it didn’t bother me…but try as I might, I cannot beat down the Aaaaaargh! that rises up unbidden from my core when I see things I’d rather not see. Like the guy in the health-food store who was wearing what appeared to be a square of dirty cotton canvas with a hole cut out for his head. It was tied at the waist with some sort of cord and slit up to a very hairy mid-thigh. He’d teamed it with black running shoes. And black ankle socks. I had to turn my shopping cart in the opposite direction.

I once told my husband that if I were queen of the universe, everyone would be required to have a full-length mirror.

“That’ll never work,” he replied. “First, they’d have to use the mirror. Second, they’d have to be able to objectively evaluate what they see…and that’s never going to happen. So you might want to take off that tiara, okay?”

I’m trying…really, I’m trying.