YOU BE YOU

How to Be Hugh Hefner

One woman’s meat dress is another woman’s prom dress

I own an orange tutu, sequins joggers, and embroidered boots, but there’s nothing in my closet that screams, “Now there’s something that would make me look normal at church.”

I have a friend who owns all the food groups of a normal wardrobe — Several styles of black dress pants, hundreds of varieties of necklaces and earrings, high heels, low heels, medium heels, flats, black boots, brown boots, stockings of all shades and colors and textures, a female fedora, blazers from all eras, wrap-around dresses, floor-length, cocktail, boob hugging, hip-hugging, strapless, cross back.

She’s a grownup with grownup clothes. If she didn’t have 40 pounds of hair, she could get ready in three minutes. Don’t get me started on her makeup and hair accessories. It makes me feel like I live in a storm drain.

Whenever I have to go out into a civilized event like a holiday party or a funeral, I panic. I open my closet and my sequins pants blink back at me. I have at least 10 beautiful robes. I’m not talking about terry cloth bathrobes. I’m talking kimonos, textiles, thin silk, thick silk, satin, fur-collared, suede.

If I were Hugh Hefner, I would be fine. I’d be ready for anything, but I’m not Hugh Hefner. I go out in a robe and I look like my husband left me and I’m looking for his mistress's condo, or I went full cuckoo's nest, or I’m locked out.

My wardrobe is the sole reason I need to be famous. Remember Björk’s bird dress? Lady Gaga’s meat dress? Kim Kardashian's COVID ninja outfit? If I were famous, people would say “Famous people aren’t like the rest of us. Adorable.”

Some people grow up knowing what to buy, what certain clothes are for and some of us look like we grew up in a flea market and nobody told us we’d have to go anywhere else.

I knew a gorgeous nine-foot-tall girl in California who owned a cocktail dress. We were 18. She had a closet filled with dresses for every occasion. “How do you know which is a cocktail dress?” I asked. “The length,” she said with utter confidence, affirming my suspicion I was friends with a debutante. It was one of those moments I realized some of us were in Kansas and others of us were in Milan.

I used to try to make my outfits look normal when I attended events, but they always felt like costumes. I couldn’t get comfortable. I thought, “Who am I trying to be, and do I even want to be that person?” Eventually, I realized my clothes might look like costumes to some but to me, they feel perfectly normal. I hate the word normal. It’s an asshole.

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