The Fashionista Files by Karen Robinovitz Page B

and was able to get it wholesale, which means half-price). It felt like a gift from the heavens. I was in a state of shock that I actually owned something so fabulous. The thought of wearing it was so exciting, I couldn’t sleep for days. I wouldn’t even put it in my closet. I left it hanging on the closet door, just so I could look at it at all times.
    I wouldn’t tell any of my friends what I’d be wearing to the party. I wanted to surprise people, as if it were a wedding dress. I turned up wearing it—with silver heels and a white sequined miniskirt (I opted to skip the matching sequined baseball hat, much to my mom’s chagrin; even then I knew when to draw the fashion line!)—and thought I was the cat’s meow. I danced all night and walked tall and proud in my shiny ensemble. “Some outfit” was the best compliment of the evening. They were just jealous, I told myself! I never wore it again—not because I didn’t want to, but because I had no other place to wear it. Until one year later, when I was invited to another sweet sixteen in a different part of town, where the audience would be totally new. It’s not the kind of look you can wear twice with the same crowd.
    I pulled it out of my closet, slowly unzipped the garment bag, and took it out. But all of my giddy emotions of admiration had left the building. I felt a wave of sadness come over me. This wasn’t so great. The shoulder pads were huge. And I didn’t even really like the Cowboys. My dad happened to, but at the wise age of seventeen, I came to understand that it was probably just because of the cheerleaders.

    1-2-3 hike (this outfit out of the closet)!
    I looked at this sparkling piece of fabric, thinking,
Huh . . . I remember it being
much, much cuter.
I put it on, just to make sure. Suddenly I saw myself not as this cute little sylph in a daringly bold outfit, but a tiny little drag queen with a Bon Jovi haircut! I zipped the bag up and went with another dress—something simple and black with sequined straps. It was at that point that epiphany struck: The Cowboys outfit was a mistake. I hoped never to see it again.
    Flash forward: I was twenty-one years old and I had to go to my cousin Bryan’s bar mitzvah. I had gained twenty pounds during the first semester of college and none of my clothes fit. Not the dress I was originally supposed to wear. Not a suit, not a skirt, not even a blouse! I didn’t want to go. There was no time to shop for something new. I got home from school on a Saturday morning and there were services to get to and a party to attend right away. I pleaded with my parents to let me stay home. But they wouldn’t give in. They didn’t understand that when fashionistas can’t find the right clothes, leaving the house is simply not an option. Suddenly my mother emerged from the attic with the sequined football jersey, the largest piece of clothing in the house. “No! Not that! Anything but that,” I screamed. The next thing I knew I was at the party, sitting (well, whining and moping) in the corner, stuffing myself with cake, in the midst of a miserable fashion moment. (Need I add that the skirt was my mother’s—and I couldn’t button or zip it, but the top was long enough to cover it up?)
    All the waiters and valet attendants accosted me: “Hey, Dallas Cowboys fan!” “Hey, you like Troy Aikman?” “What about the cheerleaders?” I was mortified. My cousin’s little friends yelled technical sports terms at me, like “Hike!” and “Touchdown!” No one knew I was secretly very stylish. To them I was just a dumpy Dallas Cowboys fan with very gaudy taste in clothing. I have yet to forgive my parents.
    The Rules of the Game
    In our years-long search for just the right outfit, we have compiled a few rules to get dressed by.
    Never do head-to-toe of the same designer. You’ll look like a walking billboard. Always bring a bit of “you” to whatever you wear—a signature necklace, great earrings, your trusty