In third grade, I had a shirt with vertical yellow, black, brown and white stripes. I unsuccessfully begged my mom to get me the matching pants. Overlooking the tremendous convenience factor, she refused. Later, as long, stringy hair and Yes T-shirts became the uniform of my high school clan, I blithely let my fashion muscle atrophy as those crucial formative years went by, never to be recovered. Now, in calcified middle age, I need help.
Television demands attention to visual detail.
Not even the Nashville Network will look the other way if the crack of your ass is showing above your tool belt, so it was time to face the inevitable. I needed a makeover. The show's producers will be my fashion sherpas, taking on the guiding role that had, in the past, always been played by relatives. I will participate in the makeover too, the way wood participates in building a birdhouse. I sit fashionably still while various frames are posed on my proboscis.