What not to wear, how not to feel

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! I've been obsessed with "What Not to Wear" for months. I watch it faithfully as I walk on the treadmill. Sometimes two or three episodes a day. So I am indebted to Stacy and Clinton for not only making my thighs smaller, but for taking my fashion knowledge from so-so to "hello!" S & C taught me that accessories should not match but "go" with your outfit. I learned all about proportion. That jackets help tie your outfit together and always make you look better. That your purse shouldn't match your shoes. And that said shoes should always be pointed toes.

Tonight I went to the first night of class for a new group and, bored while the teacher was talking, checked my Twitter feed to discover that Stacy London's coming to NWA tomorrow. During break I asked the Sam's peeps what time she'd be at the store. Turns out one of our students works for the company she's coming to represent. And she's going to ask if I can stop by their office tomorrow for a private meet and greet. OMG! I am giddy. Can you imagine? What in the world do I wear to meet such a fashionista (shut up, Amanda, the gray streak makes her look distinguished!)?

Other than excitement, my other emotions of the day included exasperation, impatience, and puzzlement. Plus, a first-rate case of jealousy. I hate feeling jealous. See, I love my life and most days I wouldn't trade places with anyone (save Giselle and Stacy London, who gets to tell people they dress like crap). But something happened today that brought out a serious case of the green monster.

So driving home tonight, I called Jen to make me feel less guilty about my petty feelings (and she did, 'cause she's awesome that way). But I'm still obsessing about it. And thinking that the boy ought to feel special that I care enough about him to be jealous. Because that's what jealousy is about, right? Being so into someone that you don't want them spending time with anyone else, or putting something before you?

Halfway home my iPod shuffled to a new song by the David Crowder Band, "How He Loves." And the opening line is "He is jealous for me. Loves like a hurricane. I am a tree, bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy."

I'm ashamed. Not just because I'm so petty, but because I don't consider often enough how very lucky I am that the incomparable God is jealous for me.

"I don't have time to maintain these regrets when I think about... How He loves us..."

Citations by the fashion police

I blame Madonna. From the first moment she wore that white lace corset to sing "Like a Virgin," women everywhere have found it acceptable to show their undergarments in public. Listen up... they call them "undergarments" for a reason. They go UNDER garments. Not beside, not outside, not near, but UNDER. It's not rocket science.

So stop showing me your bra straps, ladies. They make t-back and strapless bras for a reason. Even if your bra is super cute, I do not want to see it. Yes, I wear my sexy pink and zebra bra to work all the time, but I don't show it off to others. I know it's there. No one else needs to.

And another thing, if you're wearing super low rise jeans, do not bend over. Crack kills.

Attention lady in front of me in yoga class tonight, low waisted yoga pants and granny panties don't mix. Wear higher pants or lower underwear. I saw your pink and green striped cotton panties so many times I nearly pulled a hamstring trying to look away. Namaste.

I don't know if I've been watching way too much "What Not to Wear" or I'm just reverting back to my fashionista ways, but I don't think most of America owns a mirror. Granted, I've been known to go to Walmart without makeup. I wore my yoga clothes to Target tonight. I don't always look runway worthy.

But stop with the "it's comfortable" excuses and dress like you care. Some of us have to look at you in the grocery store.

No more sweatpants. EVER. It's not okay. I subscribe to the Jerry Seinfeld philosophy: people who wear sweatpants have just given up on life.

There should be an audition process for the following: short shorts, spaghetti straps, thongs (not to be confused with flip flops, which you wear on your feet), bikinis, and tight shirts. If I can count your fat rolls from five feet, change your clothes. It's too tight.

Women of the world, raise your right hands and repeat after me: I vow to look in the mirror before I leave my house. I will not wear socks with sandals, hose with open-toed shoes (or hose at all, really), and any footwear that make my feet look like mushrooms. Pointed-toe shoes are uncomfortable, but they make my legs look long and fabulous. I will not wear things that are too tight, too short, or reveal any undergarment. My shoes do not have to match my handbag. My accessories should pop, not match. I will iron wrinkles. I will not use a safety pin to keep my blouse closed. I will not use my purse as a grocery sack, but will consider it part of my outfit. And, in the name of all that is good and holy, I will never, ever wear white shoes.