The famous über boss of Project Runway and recent fashion guru at The Oscars came to me in a dream and demanded to see my underwear drawer. “Not gonna happen, Timmy,” I said.
He folded his hands in front of him as if in prayer. “I’m going to show you how to maximize your wardrobe. Now, open that drawer, Cinderella, before I turn you into a Jack-o-lantern,” said the man dressed in a gray suit like a funeral director from 1950.
“I wear my underwear underneath my outdated wardrobe, which is why the word under is a good description and why nothing in that drawer needs maximizing.”
He arched his eyebrows, put one arm across his chest and cupped his chin with a balled-up fist. “Sweetie, I have one word for you: Spanx.”
First he wanted to see my underwear and then he wanted to spank me? What up with that?
What was in the drawer?
A flesh-colored stretched out girdle, circa 1964 touted to make me look slim but instead made me look like Newt Gingrich in drag. I wore it once. It took an hour to put on and even longer to take off.
Granny panties designed to stretch with each piece of fried chicken I ate.
A strapless, backless glue-on bra, obviously a gag gift from someone who hates me.
After seeing my granny panties and girdles saved and pretty much forgotten since 1965, Tim shook his head and moaned, “I’m flabbergasted.” He sighed loudly and then his stoic camera crew marched into my closet like Napoleon entering Russia.
“OMG,” he wailed with both hands clasping his cheeks as if they were about to fly away. “Whaaat a dump.” (His Bette Davis needs work.)
“How long has it been since you cleaned out this closet? Nevermind. I’ll take a wild guess and say it was before Barry Goldwater ran for President.
At that exact moment, I began to seriously dislike the man in the funeral suit.
“First things first. You’re not a dysfunctionista, are you? Not one of those hoarders in need of intervention?”
“Nope, not me. I simply hoard clothes until I lose weight so I won’t have to buy new ones.”
“Good luck with that,” he quipped.
Serious dislike catapulted to the next level.
“Toss out everything you haven’t worn in a year. By the time you lose weight, they’ll be way out of style anyway.”
“They fit me a month ago.”
He rolled his eyes. “Clean, clean, clean like a white tornado, people. Carry on.”
I hated agreeing with him almost as much as I now hated him, but my closet looked like it had been hit by a real tornado.
Soon Tim and the crew were hauling off:
Shoes that terrify my bunions.
Eleven pairs of ancient boots.
Bedroom slippers I got for Christmas when I was in high school.
High heels saved since 1960 when I was a flight attendant. Ooh-la-la.
Leather spike heeled sandals never worn, heavily tinted with green mold.
White tie-dyed tees turned wonky orange at the neck.
Three red and fourteen black purses; a white clutch bag for after Memorial Day and before Labor Day; five evening bags studded with silver sequins. Blingapalooza! And one large Michael Kors snakeskin purse that I totally adore.
They deep-sixed my hanging clothes except for a faux leather tunic, black tights and a pair of black Go-Go boots that I’m positive would send my feet to the nearest orthopedist.
“You call this maximizing? I can’t wear that outfit,” I whined. “I planned to give it to my teenage granddaughter for Halloween. And where’s my Michael Kors purse?”
Glancing up, I saw the backside of the gray suit rushing out the door with my cherished Michael Kors purse slung over his shoulder. “Carry on, Cappy. Go, go, go!”
I awoke with a raging headache. First thing I did was run to my closet where every nonessential, dusty, outdated, tacky piece of apparel was safely where it had been the day before. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. As I stood staring at everything, I couldn’t help wondering if I was a Fashionista or a Fashion Dysfuntionista?
Label me Project Runamok, people, and make Tim Gunn a happy man.
Go! Go! Go!