Who’s Larry Niddlemeyer, you ask? Larry Niddlemeyer was the father of a close friend I had while growing up. He often went out on the weekends wearing his pajama pants, socks and open-toed house slippers. Spotted anywhere from the coffee shop to the bowling alley in this inappropriate outfit, we would howl with laughter each time a sighting was made. Here I am, 38-years-old and I am morphing into the image I’ve shunned my entire life.

I can’t pin point the moment it all started to dip downhill. I was never a decked out couture diva, but one thing I always made sure of was that I wore cute, sexy shirts and jeans that hugged all the right places. I never looked fresh out of a magazine, but at some point (after arriving to the burbs) I decided that it was not only acceptable, but also attractive (and a new style that I’ve labeled comfy/careless/who gives a flying fuck), to take all of my old t-shirts as well as the old t-shirts of all the men in my home, cut them up so they look like old rags and wear them  on a daily basis—for any and all activities—whether I am cleaning the garage, going to a night club or taking a nap.  And when I say cut up, I am not talking about those cute Flash Dancey shirts that you can learn how to make on You Tube; you know, the ones that are shredded in the back and cut with purpose and precision. No! I mean a Shirt that looks like it was cut by a bi-polar serial killer with a lame hand who forgot to take his Lithium and went buck wild with kitchen scissors on some embarrassing shirt that your mother brought back from Cancun.

When this fashion fiasco first started I had no idea it was happening. One winter night, after sipping wine with my husband, we collapsed into our bed donning cozy pajamas and, me, with my slippers. He said, “Please take those slippers off before getting into our bed,” a disgusted look plastered on his face. I said, “Why, they’re my house slippers?” He said, “If they’re your house slippers how come I saw you wearing them at the store last week?”

My cheeks turned red hot and I was immediately reeled back into my childhood, visions of Larry Niddlemeyer skipping through my head.

Perhaps my anti-fashion sense is my subconscious rebelling; rebelling against the groups and clicks into which I don’t fit. I’m not in the Moms That Work and Wear Heels Group; as you can decipher from my earlier mention of the slippers. These moms always look pretty and put together. They do their hair and make-up in the morning and can actually get out of the car when dropping their children to school. I could never exit the car upon drop off; as I am always in my pajamas and lucky if I have on underwear.

The Hoochie Mama Sweat Suit Group is also out of the question.  These women all have some obscure word or brand written across their butts. The pants are almost always worn with a matching sweat jacket, the outfit made complete with a brand spanking new pair of fashion-colored Nikes. This group likes to give the appearance that they came straight from the gym, just worked out, even though their hair and make-up is perfectly done, not a drop of sweat or a sweat stain anywhere in sight. Recently, at a neighborhood football game I spotted the queen of this group. She looked exactly like the anorexic stunt double for Kimora Lee Simmons [1](founder of Baby Phat and ex-wife of Russell Simmons) except she was actually wearing high-heeled platform shoes with her purple velvet sweat suit.  As I know nothing of current fashion trends, her outfit may have been cutting edge. However, The Queen confused me as I couldn't lump her with the Hoochie Mama Sweat Suit Group due to her choice of shoes, yet she didn't resemble anyone I know from the Moms That Work and Wear Heels Group. In the end I reasoned that perhaps she was the owner of a gym.

Last, but certainly not least, is the Matching Belt and Bag Group. This group usually hails from beaucoup bucks. They are totally the type to invest in private swim lessons and own the latest, most expensive handbag, which wasn’t purchased at a sample sale or Marshals. In addition to the bag, whether it’s Louis or Kors or Prada; they almost always wear their bag with the matching belt, chunky bejeweled buckle and all. This group can also be spotted by their jeans. They are tight fitting, worn out and fashionable; made to look like a great thrift store find, but purchased at Nordstrom’s for $599…on sale.

I’m almost ten years in and still searching for the Mom’s that Don’t Brush their Hair and Wear Ripped Shirts with House Slippers Group. Perhaps this group usually hails from a mental ward or old age home. I know for a fact that I’m considered a babe amongst the Early Bird Special Crowd and have been complimented on my keen eye for fashion by the I’m Legally Blind but Don’t Wear my Glasses Gang.

Bottom line: I’m grasping onto fashion for dear life, hanging by the strap of a Burberry knockoff, palms sweaty and slick as I slide and plummet into a sharp sea of animal-shaped Swarovski crystals.

I flip through the old photos, the days when I wore cute wrap dresses and red patent leather peep toe shoes; I look back and say “Look at her, she was beautiful, she was a real woman.” And for a week I’m inspired to dig to the way back of my closet, past the cut up shirts and unearth those once fashionable outfits. After blowing off the dust and trying to make a late 90’s leopard Lycra shirt look updated and retro, I decide that not only am I sweaty and uncomfortable, but who the hell am I dressing for? The sweet man that owns the gas station or my ten-pound Maltese who tries to eat my dirty socks.  And what am I getting out of looking hot aside from a truck full of landscapers pulling up beside me at a red light and making tongue gestures while my 11-year old son sits in the car with me? No one’s coming to give me an award for best dressed in Merrick. Hell, fashionable won’t even get me a good Groupon deal on laser hair removal for my mustache.

I’m Larry Niddlemeyer and I’m proud!