I’ve sat in bed, infomercial-late, unable to sleep. Sometimes it’s the next afternoon, but I’ve moved to the sofa and have managed to nab a bottle of Poland Spring. In either place, I’m usually watching some channel devoted to style. Of course I’m in threadbare sweats, with a seat so worn, it’s almost sheer, and t-shirt that once looked white but now resembles a soft coated wheaten terrier. And there I am listening to a high-profile stylist to the stars or an interview with an au courant designer, while I think nothing of what I’m wearing. I mean, would it kill me to invest in some decent jammies? Something in a pima cotton, perhaps a floral print. Invariably, said designer hems about the difference between style and fashion.

You can wear a garbage bag with style, even if it’s not fashion-forward. Dreads. Doc Martin’s. Seven Jeans. It’s not about the label, they insist, but how it’s all assembled, what’s paired with what, and how you wear it, that makes it, and ultimately you, stylish. I’d like to go on record saying that’s utter turdlets. When I was fat and clothes in normal stores stopped fitting, it was a challenge to fit in… to anything, never mind transforming some geometric printed moomoo into a chichi frock. When I tied one of my father’s button-down shirts on, I was greeted with accolades: "Wow, way to wear a man’s clothes, Moose."

What I’ve noted as of late, without consulting a single tabloid or checking in with the tastemakers of the moment, is that nearly everyone, it seems, owns designer boots and pairs them with a short dress and opaque tights. And it makes me want to live where it’s cooler, so I too can strut it around in thigh high boots, leggings or tights, and some ridiculously short dress, that really, must be sold as a shirt.  You simply cannot pull this look off when it’s 80 degrees out. And what’s more, your boots cannot be stiletto. This isn’t the kind of trend that rents its rooms by the hour. One may be able to–though I am not the one– pull off such a mini and boot match without tights, but my cellulite begs to differ.  Perhaps there’s middle ground, somewhere in Spanx territory, but even then, is there anything worse than seeing a control top line peeking out beneath your dress? Maybe it’s time to shop for a long version of a mini-slip.