The sartorially challenged should invite sympathy, not scorn. Who plans Sarah Huckabee Sander’s outfits? I’d say the odds are good that Sarah has been rummaging through her own closet unfortunately. She may even reflect at length before getting dressed, picking up one dress after another, trying to figure out which style and color will best minimize her hips.
She does not seem to favor slacks. She leans to solids. That’s the hips, again.
I know Sarah’s struggle. I too am a sartorially challenged woman of curves. When it comes to creating outfits, I just don’t get it. I have organized closets filled with clothes that flatter my skin color. I have jackets, sweaters, scarves, jewelry, pants, leggings, tunics, tailored shirts, t-shirts, sweaters, skirts and other random accessories. Yet, somehow, I still suffer from dressing dyslexia.
I pick matching pieces. I add accessories. I go to the mirror.
Then I ask: What went wrong? Like Sarah and other dressing dyslexics, I often don’t know. I can dress myself well enough so that I can tell the reflection in the mirror is … off, somehow. Like Sarah, I don’t exactly look bad. The shoes go with the pants go with the top, and the scarf ought to fit fine. The dress suits my shape and the tights seem basically harmless. Nevertheless, I can’t count the number of times I have shaken my head at the mirror, looked at the time on the clock, and said, “Oh, well. It looks intentional. Gotta go.”
Intentional. That’s my favorite word for some of Sarah’s outfits. I am sure she created what she had set out to create. But I have a tip for Sarah and other dressing dyslexics: Find the Yahtzee dice.
Awhile back, I created a new system for getting dressed. I’ll use it now. I pick up the black plastic container of six dice. I roll the dice. High dice wins. I arrange the dice in a row based on where they landed. The high dice is the last one in the row, a number six. I pick up three dice and roll again to get a sum total of sixteen.
Each dice represents a location. One stands for scarves, two for pants, three for the casual drawer, four for skirts and dresses, five for tops worth hanging up, and six for jackets and sweaters. My roll says I have to wear the sixth item from the left in sweaters or jackets. I can use the sixteenth item in that section instead. (I can also say, “It’s fifteen degrees outside. This would be goofy,” and roll again.)
The original plan for the dice system involved closet cleaning. If I rolled an item I was unwilling to wear, that item went into the charity bag. The system worked pretty well and now I am almost entirely down to items that meet my standards, which might best be expressed as, “not ugly and has no holes.” The blue dress with the ruffles on the butt, though? That thing had to go.
Why am I still rolling the dice since my closet has been cleaned? Because much to my amusement, I started getting compliments on my outfits. Suddenly, adults and even middle school students started going out of their way to tell me that I looked good. The dice seemed to have much better taste than I did. Or maybe the dice made me think about clothing differently. When I start with a scarf, I often end up juggling pieces to get that scarf to work.
I’ll go to the closet now. Number six is a long, pale blue and gray sweater with a fringe, perfect for this day at home. I can go rummage through the casual drawer and then I’ll add some jeans. I don’t expect the total ensemble to be a “Wow!” moment, but people won’t be talking about me when I leave Walmart or step off the press podium, either.
“We can rebuild him. We have the technology,” Oscar Goldman said in the Six Million Dollar Man.
Luckily for Sarah, the technology she needs can be captured in a black plastic cup. Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle, a quick flick of the wrist. Then all she has to do is arrange the dice, count and coordinate. She might toss a dress or two into the Goodwill bag at the start.
Why dress yourself, Sarah, when random numbers can do it better?
