The world of fashion won't wear me down - OCRegister

I was just looking at Vanity Fair’s best-dressed list, and I couldn’t help noticing that I wasn’t on it.

This was hurtful to me, especially since I didn’t make the list last year or the year before, either.

Now, this compendium has a fairly large number of people on it who have titles like Her Royal Highness and the Duchess of Bleeping Everything, but still, you’d think I could have made the cut.

After all, Lady Gaga was on there last year, and she’s not the queen of anything, except maybe pop music these days.

I mean, in addition to working full time and chasing two kids around, I also spend at least 20 minutes a year reading fashion magazines and shopping for clothes.

What was all that work for if my efforts are not even recognized?

It is fairly laughable that I even look at fashion magazines, considering every dress showcased inside them is worth more than the car in my driveway. And I have dictionaries that weigh more than some of those models, who need weighted saddlebags like jockeys to keep from blowing away on windy days.

But I like to look at them in the same way that I read National Geographic. I’ll never go to the moon or eat bugs for dinner with a Stone Age tribe from the Amazon (river, people, not retailer), and neither will I wear a strapless fishtail dress onto a red carpet.

Not this year, at least.

It’s fun to read lines in the Vanity Fair piece announcing its best-dressed list such as “Lupita Nyong’o was an obvious shoo-in, but the voters also anointed Donna Tartt (who loves her buttercup yellow kidskin gloves).”

I mean, who doesn’t? I have no idea who either of those women are. And I’ve never owned a pair of kidskin gloves. In fact, I’m not even sure what kidskin is. It’s not made from real kids like mine, is it?

I subscribe to Vanity Fair because it occasionally has pieces of amazing journalism, though I suppose that makes me sound like the men who read Playboy for the articles.

But being a subscriber doesn’t turn me into a fashion insider, nor does it wave a magic wand of sophistication over my stretched-out mom jeans that came from the discount store.

It’s fairly hard to justify wearing anything else, when my average day consists of writing at my home computer and running around doing research, enlivened only by the thrill of making lunch for the dog and then dinner for a pair of teenagers who complain they’re not hungry – until 9 p.m., when the food’s all been put away and they suddenly decide they’re ravenous.

Not exactly as exciting as the king of Bhutan, who made the best-dressed list from which I was shunned. But, then, his “notable ensemble of 2014” was a “traditional burgundy knee-length gho” to celebrate a bridge opening.

I don’t celebrate a lot of bridge openings around my house, and I only wear my ghos on alternate Mondays.

And I have a bone to pick with these people, as well as the editors of Vogue and other fashionista fare.

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