True confession? I am a fashion “Don’t”. In fact, some of my outfits could easily fall under the category “Don’t Even Think About It”. Today, for example, my ensemble consists of my “mom jeans” (a few stalwart VPLs somehow making their way through the sturdy denim), a pair of pink Crocs and a large, colorful fanny pack. (The last is a favorite accessory choice that causes my style-sensitive children to wince visibly when they see me). Other outfits in my wardrobe are of such a flamboyant nature as to be capable of momentarily startling susceptible strangers who come across me unexpectedly.From all this you will conclude that I am a likely candidate to end up with a black bar placed strategically across my eyes on the “Don’t” page of a certain popular women’s magazine. I never used to worry much about the potential shock and mortification of one day opening the magazine to find myself featured prominently in its Hall of Shame. For one thing, I stopped looking at the magazine decades ago, and it seemed reasonable to assume that about that time the magazine would have stopped looking at me. Also, I figured, a small overworked editorial staff against millions of women like me walking around wearing socks with their sandals, well my odds were pretty good. And so, unconcernedly, I boldly continued my daily assaults on the sensibilities of my more tasteful fellow citizens. But times have changed and I’m not so sanguine anymore.

For one thing, the magazine now enlists its vast network of readers to scout out offenders. Fanning out through the streets armed with cameras and cellphones, they snap photos of unsuspecting people engaged in fashion violations, (much like those cameras installed at red lights, only sneakier) and then upload the images to the magazine’s website under the caption “Don’t Spotting”. At this point, reminiscent of the wicked witch exhorting the flying monkeys to go after Dorothy and friends, the publication astonishingly encourages its readers to add their own comments about the posted photos. Let me tell you, those comments are not for the faint of heart. Halfway through perusal of same I was forced to pause to mop my perspiring brow, for genial and matey they are not – middle school mean girls are kissing doves by comparison.

And now an even more potent force has suddenly emerged on the scene. Marvel Comics announced it is creating a new comic superhero – Tim Gunn (the charming fashionista of Project Runway fame). Clad in an Iron Man’s suit, “Loaded Gunn’s” mission is to search out crimes of fashion and punish the offenders. And what does Tim view as the number one fashion crime, the capital offense of style felonies? You guessed it, those ubiquitous Crocs. Add the aggravating factor of a colorful fanny pack, an accessory to the crime if you will, and you can forget about time off for good behavior.

Now legions of overzealous readers snapping pictures are one thing because they are, after all, mere mortals. But unleash a superhero, especially one with a discerning eye for fabric and design, and the jig’s up – I’m going down. Indicted on multiple counts for my fashion crimes, being as heinous as they are numerous, Tim and his fashion police will come for me. I imagine the scene. Me, pleading for mercy: “I’ve watched every episode of Project Runway at least once Tim and I’ll never wear my crocs again, not even the ones with the cute charms stuck in the holes.” Tim responding firmly, though with compassion, quoting the famous words of his colleague Heidi Klum: “I’m sorry, but you know how it goes. In fashion one day you’re in and the next day you’re out. In your case, you’re out in seven years.”

They’ll clap a pair of tasteful gold bangles around my wrists and cart me off to fashion prison. I will be tossed into a cell with women from all walks of life, hardened souls with bad roots and chipped nail polish, guilty of odious crimes such as wearing blue eye shadow or dying themselves orange after OD-ing on tanning spray, placed side-by-side with quiet dowdy types whose only misdemeanor was the wearing of high socks with sneakers or the injudicious mixing of plaids with florals. There, in the poky, I will be forced to endure daily style makeovers and dress in age appropriate, though fashion forward, ensembles with matching uncomfortable shoes. That part will be the hardest of all, since what I secretly hanker for is one of those striking iridescent orange jump suits, preferably with coordinating crocs and fanny pack, of course.

Written and illustrated by Alisa Singer 2009