Given that neurotic minimalism is my style -- the opposite of a hoarder, I'm a purger, bulimia aside -- I'm trying to build my humble collection of quality skirts, dresses, pants, and tops, as opposed to buying thin swaths of fabric labelled "dress" from Target and Forever 21 Too Old To Wear This and hoping the frock won't disintegrate in the dryer, but wearing it anyway when it does, until I use it to wipe down the counter as an afterthought before throwing it in the trash (true story). I want a few pieces of good quality clothing that I can wear perpetually, getting dry cleaned or hand washed occasionally, that don't look disheveled in my closet or on me for a change. I don't want to look like Little Orphan Hannie, one pulled thread away from neked, anymore, nor do I want to have a closet full of forgotten, trendy, never worn items. I'm all for functional materialism.

My birthday last week came and went leaving a stash of unexpected but greedily accepted cash from far away family and friends. Instead of making an indiscernible to the point of pointless dent in my student loan debt, I went the instant gratification route and bought new clothes, none from Target, almost all dry clean only, hopefully doing my benefactors proud.

At university, students in my college had to take a class that was basically business charm school. We learned how to dress and how to talk and how to be, in my mind at the time, manipulative douchebags. I rolled my eyes so many times, I'm lucky they didn't get stuck in the back of my head or worse, that someone didn't call me out on my immaturity. I always remember a phrase uttered by an annoyingly enthusiastic (and wealthy, in a privileged, lucky way as opposed to a picked himself up by the cheap, shoddy bootstraps by working at Pizza Hut and putting himself through college, more elusive way). "Dress for the job you want, not the job you have." The student speaker didn't assume I aspired to little more at that time than to scoff at privilege and conventionalism in my ratty dresses and broken flip flops, begrudging smug assholes who got jobs based on their chummy personalities, nepotism, and parent bought lifestyles. I eventually got over all that pointless, bitter resentment. And though I don't aspire to be a Minimalist Diva professionally, just usually, imma start living up to that once mocked grown-up dress-up idea. I'm no fashionista, but like SJP, this little orphan Hannie can graduate to bigger and better roles. "I couldn't help but wonder...is it time to dress the fuck up?"

My new theme song that plays while I'm prancing out the apartment (prancing being a euphemism for running frantically because I'm always late) in my new duds is that Reba Mcentire song. I mighta been born just plain white trash, but Fancy was my name. Prostitution connotations notwithstanding...or rather, withstanding, but metaphorically now.