I’m the perfect candidate for your makeover show.
First off, who nominated me? Was it my coworkers, tired of watching me throw a blazer over pajamas and call it “business casual?” Or was it my grad school friend Kelly, who insists that turtlenecks are not appropriate garb for clubbing (although if we’re being completely honest, Kelly dresses like she’s one bustier shy of a bordello).
Wait, I was nominated by my MOTHER?!!! I guess she’s can’t figure out why a grown woman who earns a livable wage still uses black electrical tape to hold her boots together.
Let me be clear: I know how to dress for my body type. Post-babies, I’m slightly plump, in a “before-picture-in-a-Nutrasystem-ad” sort of way. I’ve flipped through fashion magazines, and not just for their “articles.” I own countless cute outfits that work well for my figure. I just continue to wear those same outfits until the fabric disintegrates off my torso or revolves back in style decades later (patience, my lime-green culottes; your day will come again).
So please, hand me $1000 to spend on a new wardrobe. I promise it won’t be a repeat of that time in middle school when my grandma gave me $50 for my birthday and I went to the flea market and bought t-shirts in every color of the rainbow. Wait, no, sorry- every NEON color of the rainbow. I still sometimes wear the bright orange one.
This time will be different: I’ll go to real high-end stores, not crappy ones like Aeropostale or Banana Republic that I thought were “high-end” when I was 23. I’ll park myself at Ann Taylor and buy wool-blend cardigan sets with fake pearl buttons that say “dry-clean only,” but I’ll “wash with like colors” until they shrivel into shapeless wool-blend raisins. Then I’ll wear them under a new blazer from Chico’s.
I’ll visit the kiosk in the mall that sells knockoff cashmere pashminas, and I will buy them all. Then I’ll model them for the snarky show consultants, who’ll tell me that a grown woman who doesn’t live in the early 2000s shouldn’t own a pashmina, nevertheless so many of them. But just to stir up drama, I’ll keep them all.
Everyone dreams of taking off our glasses, shaking out our ponytail, and suddenly we’re Margot Robbie. This is my chance! Dye the heck out of my hair, add layers that only look good in a salon mirror, blow it into a lavish concoction that will take a hot air vacuum, a gallon of argon oil, and four hair ninjas to replicate at home.
I won’t flinch when you throw out my make-up collection I’ve been accruing since college, including the magazine perfume inserts I’d saved for “special occasions” (I’ve labeled my signature scent “glamorous cardboard”). I’ll nod when you explain how easy it is to create a smokey eye using six shades of metallic gray shadow and more brushes than Van Gogh used to paint Starry Night. I will use a lip pencil, and not just for adding things to my grocery list. Your makeover show reminds us we need to put ourselves first, and that means composing my visage like someone who moonlights as a geisha on weekends.
Convince me that it’s worth it to put thought into my appearance. Say platitudes about how we’re all judged by what we present to the world, and we should always strive to be our best selves, inside and out. Tell me I deserve to feel good about the way I look, and with smokey eyes and an iota of effort, I can turn heads at school pickup, and not just because my flannel is missing a sleeve again.
So please pick me, choose me, love me for your makeover reality show. I’m relatable! I’m malleable! And most of all, I’m tired AF and want someone else to blame for this visual trainwreck.