I’m in no way qualified to impart fashion advice.  I concede this because I produced, in my one act of procreation, a fashionista.  I have considered perhaps she may be a changeling, but my ego wants to take some credit for the divine creature purported to be my daughter.  She is a legit fashion maven.  She works in the industry and, unlike her unemployable mother, is much sought after regularly receiving offers to work for companies from New York to San Francisco.  I’d post a picture for your adoration, but she’d kill me.  She claims my Internet activities are part of the reason she’s still in therapy . . . that and 18 years of unlimited ridership on mommy’s crazy train.  She periodically expresses concern regarding my wardrobe and does what she can to steer me away from the more significant faux pas.

Now that we’ve established I am most certainly stylistically challenged . . . yes, that is me pictured above and pearls are too appropriate for every occasion . . . I can claim the benefit of my offspring’s guidance and believe myself capable of identifying some of the more egregious mistakes one can make when it comes to what you should and should not wear outside the privacy of your own home. 

Warning:  Some of what follows is NOT for the faint of heart or those with a weak constitution.  Continue at your own risk!

The classic jammies at the grocery store.

They may be comfy and warm and absolutely adorable, but we must not for any reason go to the store or anywhere else in our PJs.  The girl on TV can go to school in her pajamas, but that is because she is not leaving her house.  No, you cannot wear the bottoms with a tank top.  I know, they look like cute plaid, flannel pants, but I have been assured people will still know they are jammies.  The only exception is patronage of the local Walmart.  Wally World has received special dispensation for its customers, but you must go and return directly with no stops, not even for gas or fast food drive-thru.

Leggings, Tights, Yoga Pants . . . a rose by any name.

I know, I know.  I love my yoga pants and tights.  I have an array of colors and thought I was rockin’ the old lady bod in my leggings, boots and oversized sweaters.  I guess it’s one of those styles that – no matter how cool it was in the 80’ – has to be put away with the leg warmers.  It’s not fair, but only hookers or very young girls can pull this look off.  Unless you are under the age of six or a crack whore, you may only wear them for their intended purpose . . . yoga, jogging and other workouts.  No, you can’t be cruisin’ around pretending you just left Pilates.  Take a look at the picture . . . would you be buying that story?

The classic plaid shorts paired with socks and sandals.

Just like many other “oldies, but goodies,” no . . . not just no, but hell no!  Why guys?  The standard for men’s attire is not high.   Even a fashion retard like me can see this is wrong, but every summer there are the dissenters that somehow manage to convince themselves its okay.  It’s not okay.  Dudes, you are embarrassing your families, friends even total strangers.  If you insist on wearing shorts with socks, I have two words for you . . . Charlie Harper.  Google it, if you have to.  As for the sandals, if your feet are so ugly or cold that you need the socks, lose the Birkenstocks.  Only one group gets a pass here and that’s the Vets on Veteran’s Day.  They’ve earned the right to wear anything they want on their special day . . . except . . .

The pinnacle of crimes against humanity.

No passes.  No exceptions.  No special dispensation.  Never, not ever, no, NEVER!  Speedos should be illegal!  No one really looks good in them.  I don’t care how buff you are, it’s all about the package.  Fellas, you know what I’m talking about.  You either end up looking like a pervert, some poor under-endowed loser or these guys.  Do you think super-bling man there is over compensating?  Oh wait . . . we can see that he is.  Talk about leaving NOTHING to the imagination.  The only thing worse than Speedos are man thongs.  If you really want to put your junk on display . . . find a nude beach.  Please, somebody get me a fork.  I need it to gouge my eyes out!

The Great American Butt Crack.

Man, woman, alien?  What can I say?  It sneaks up on you.  You are powerless to avoid it.  You can never turn away fast enough to prevent the image from being burned into your retinas.  Once a phenomenon reserved for hairy, old plumbers, now its spreading like a virus.  There are so many solutions . . . jeans that fit . . . extra long T-shirts (they make them) . . . belts . . . squatting down rather than bending over.  I don’t care how you handle it.  Just, please, handle it.  You see some dude or chick and you’re thinking, “Nice ass.”  Then they bend over right in front of you, out comes the butt crack, and the moment is lost . . . forever.  Not sexy, just plain gross.  The only person in all of history to do it with charm is the little girl in the Coppertone ads and she isn’t bending over.  If she was, it would probably be gross too.

There you have it.  I don’t think it’s asking much.  The fashion monkey’s looking pretty fine about now.  Isn’t she?  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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