How smart is pretty?

I am trying on clothes.  Tight pants, loose skirts, comfy tees, less than comfortable jeans.  My room looks like Nordstrom exploded in it.  The cats pull loose ends out of open drawers and the overhead fan rustles the stack of fashion magazines.  I am an unforgivable clothes horse.

I am also however an equal opportunity shopper.  I am just as likely to buy a cute pair of shoes at Payless as I am at Prada.  I shop Goodwill, Target and Neiman Marcus.

Two days ago, the most revered printed word published annually arrived in my mailbox, the Vogue September Issue.  Since then I have drooled over Marc Jacob's sexiest line ever for Louis Vuitton.  I have coveted the swirling skirts and cinched waists from Prada.  Don't even get me started on Max Mara.  Leathers and lace and gathers and pintucks.  This is a spectacular season.

Hence, I am twirling around my bedroom like some hopped up teenager, piling on necklaces and pinning up hems.

Somewhere, in a room close by my children are sitting mesmerized in front of the T.V.  I am vaguely aware of SpongeBob's droning laugh.  I am reluctant but I tear myself away from closet and peep into the living room.

Annelise is wrapped in a blanket, even though I keep the air at 77, and lounging on the sofa.  Teddy is ensconced in the "dog chair" with, who else but, the dog.

I quietly retreat, aiming back for the bedroom but sit to write this blog instead.

When did I become obsessed with fashion?  I remember in high school devouring the Utne Reader and The New Yorker.  Sure, my mom bought me a subscription to Seventeen but I was more likely to be found reading Anne Tyler or e.e.cummings.  Not to say I wore a bag over my head but when did I notice the way Carolina Herrera drapes material or Prada stacks a heel?  When  did hemlines and kid leather become as important to me as...as...well, as they are?

I don't watch Project Runway.  I've never been to Fashion Week.  I consider In Style vapid (though I do have a subscription.  Jeesh).

Recently I tried to entice Annelise to practice ballet.  Tutus and leotards, stockings and satin shoes... so pretty.  She abruptly informed me that she wants to take a form of martial arts (we immediately enrolled in Tae Kwon Do, white uniform included).  I felt proud.  I have raised a smart assertive little girl who frequently dons leg warmers, over the knee, and a newsboy.  She is no slave to fashion and barely tolerates my drivel about wanting her to look pretty.

Somewhere, at sometime, I decided that fashion and intelligence cannot be married.  When guests come over, I actually hide In Style and Vogue and put out The Smithsonian.

I guess I don't hide my dirty little obsession very well considering I actually wear the clothes and shoes I covet/purchase.  However, I do hope my epitaph doesn't read "She dressed well".... however, I am sure if given the opportunity I will choose want I want to be buried in.  I've always favored Oscar de la Renta...