Fashion Future

I am scared. Terrified, actually. Yup, I am afraid of my fashion future. And here's why. I am a social worker. A mental health professional. A member of a field that is known for its peace, love, and happiness approach to life and fashion. When I was studying to become a social worker, I had a stereotypical image of social workers in my mind. You know...flowing skirts and over-sized shirts, tie-dyed attire, etc. When I joined the profession, I worked with young, hip, middle classed women with long brown hair with Longchamp bags their mothers bought them for their birthdays and Tori Burch shoes they purchased at Nordstroms. While I wasn't proud of my wardrobe that was completely supplied by Marshalls and Target, I sighed of relief thinking that social workers didn't really dress as poorly as I thought.

Then, I came to the Cape this week to take a class. Not a bad gig. 8:30-12:15 M-F, good snacks, continuing education credits, time with other mental health professionals from around the country, and time enough left in the day to get to the beach and cook out. The only problem is that I've had difficulty focusing on the topic at hand (executive functions) because I've been distracted by the hideous fashion that has surrounded me. My fear of becoming a fashion "don't" as I continue in the field has returned. Here's why.

First, there's a woman I've named Cat Lady. While she does seem like a woman who has a dozen cats and no friends, I call her Cat Lady because 3 days this week she wore three dimensional cat socks along with her black sneakers, over sized pocket less jeans, and various amazing (and you know what I mean by amazing) tops. The scariest top was worn today. A black sweatshirt with shoulder pads. Yup, you read it right. Shoulder pads. The collar, shoulders, and 3/4 of the sleeves were covered in gingham plaid, while legs and red shoes that were bedazzled made up the rest of the core of the sweatshirt. The back said, "There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home". Incredible.

Then, there's Crunchy. You know the type. Shorts that are too short and tight, hideous orthopedic sandals, and a funky t-shirt with some Native American representations. I wasn't as distracted by her attire as I was by the pale skin she displayed with the only hint of color coming from her varicose veins.

Oh, and Florida Fashion Plate is also a winner. Today, she had on a leopard print jacket, black clam diggers, gold strappy sandals, and too much gold jewelery which was only outdone by her perfectly highlighted helmet of hair.

Of course, there was also My Favorite Repeat (wore the same thing every day in different colors), Christy McNichol (head to toe in different color denims), and Token. Token is every man at a mental health conference. There are only a few. Usually, they are the speaker. Sometimes, there are a few in the crowd. Wherever they are, these men are usually Fraud-like psychiatrists with white beards and mustaches, receding hairlines, short sleeved Sipowitz shirts, khaki shorts, skinny hairless legs, and Birkenstocks.

So, can you blame me for being anxious about my own fashion future? In a room of 45, I couldn't identify one social worker who had any sense of style. What's worse is wondering...what if I, too, am a horrible dresser? Am I in denial? Is it because of my childhood? Should I blame my mother? Good thing I have one more day with these mental health professionals, as they might be able to help me work through these issues.