Fashionista

From time to time I get a call to help with some design or decorating dilemma. I make a little money and really enjoy the challenge of creating a visually appealing space that is a reflection of the people who live there. The calls range from, "I'll pay you to help me pick out colors" to "I need new furniture for my house - here's my credit card." (Okay, that last one only happened once, but man was it fun!)

My heart sings when I walk into a well apportioned room, or when I manage to find that classic pencil skirt that fits perfectly. I think this interest began in high school, although visual diversity has developed through at least one uncomfortable situation (see following story). It is just a reminder that youthful exuberance should never be confused with actual skill.

One day I had to run into the local Fred Meyer to pick something up. I had just come from my high school. I was wearing a blue and white striped shirt with a blue vest, blue skirt, white tights, blue earrings, and blue flats. Oh - I also had my blue purse with me. I was styling!
I remember spending a lot of time picking out each piece of my wardrobe and feeling really good about the "matchiness" of it all.

I parked my car and walked up to the door when a man stopped me and asked how late the deli was open. I thought to myself, why would he think I would know that?

At the speed of thought - I realized, to my absolute horror, that he thought I worked at Fred Meyer. Oh my gosh! I was dressed like a deli girl! The poor man's face turned multiple shades of red as he realized I was not coerced into my attire but actually chose my ensemble of my own free will. His face must have matched mine as our mutual mortification sunk in. I still remember the look on his face as he said, "Oh, I thought you..." he stopped in mid sentence. Awkward silence followed. I didn't even go into the store. I went home and threw away my purse.