You dont tell me my business: My Soul is made of Hooded Sweatshirts

My entire life up until this point has been a sham. I haven't been honest with the world or myself. Ive tried to hide who I really am and after almost 30 years I think its time to come clean.

I am not fashionable. And I don't care. There, I said it.

I have never really been interested in clothes or shoes or if they match or if what I'm wearing is acceptable for this decade. But, being a girl and then a woman, Ive had to pretend that the act of hunting, capturing, and securing garments is one of the reasons I get up in the morning. I've faked it pretty well and over time I even learned to enjoy it the best way I could, but really, its always been an empty gesture. The times I do go out with the act of buying clothes in mind, I get distracted by accessories instead. My weaknesses include crappy rhinestone costume jewelry, baseball hats, and sneakers. None of which qualify as actual clothing.

I mainly care that what I'm wearing is comfortable and if I will be able to handle wearing it for more than 15 minutes without instantly hating wherever I'm going just because I'm uncomfortable as hell. The inability to stand this type of physical discomfort is deeply ingrained. My fashionable, interior decorator mother used to lament the time it would take to first, get a pair of tights on me, and then count the minutes she could get me to keep them on without constantly saying my legs itched or pulling at my crotch. I remember almost nothing from my early childhood. Hating tights, I remember.

Because I'm eternally mentally preparing for the worst disaster scenario in any situation, I like to dress knowing that I will be able to fight or run from whatever bombing, mugging, tornado, shooting, runaway fire, or animal stampede that may possibly occur without being hindered by what I'm wearing. Skinny jeans--real jeans, not glorious jeggings--and super cute 5 inch nude pumps are not going to help you when you need to get away from an impending fireball while carrying a 22 lb baby. Because you can bet your ass me and my kid are the ones that survive that. Team Q wins at the apocalypse.

This isn't to say that I don't appreciate fashion or beautiful clothes. I love looking at them. Fashionable people are delicious eye candy and I enjoy watching them walk into somewhere and think "wow that outfit is so cute, I wish I cared enough to go get all 12 pieces of it". I do not. Id rather stare at you in it. I think that's one of the main fallacies that people have about unfashionable people. That we don't appreciate beauty or looking nice. We do. We just don't have the patience to do it ourselves. So keep your 3 hour morning routine and extravagant shopping trips because I want to continue staring at you in public.

If it was permanently Fall, and if I didn't ever have to go to social functions that required looking nice or if I ever became famous enough to get away with not looking nice at social functions, my wardrobe would only consist of the following items:

12 Hooded sweatshirts
6 Hoodies with a zipper
7 flannel shirts
72 pairs of jeggings
6 pairs of yoga pants
5 pairs of warm sweatpants
7 pairs of short shorts
15 perfectly fitted cotton tshirts
7 fitted cotton wifebeaters--Im sorry I don't know what else to call them I'm classy
6 pairs of rockstar adidas
1 pair of black Carolina boots
1 pair of fake Frye boots from Target that make me feel like a pirate

That's really all I require to be happy. And comfortable. And thats fine. No matter what Stacy and Clinton will tell you. Its ok to not care about what you're wearing. Don't let people make you feel bad about it. Because deep down under our eight layers of skin and under the muscle and bones, way deep down in there, in some hidden place, there is a real you. And if it could live outside your body, you might be surprised what you actually look like. Ive come to accept that if I could see the real me, it is probably is a smallish but sturdy pile of flannel and hoods and zippers and fake leather and jean material with some Christmas lights peeking out of pockets and button holes with a fakey rhinestone jewel thrown in every so often. Inner me is comfy and warm and able to survive whatver manmade or natural disaster is thrown its way. So you let your freak flag fly and wear whatever the hell you feel like.