I love winter clothes.
They are all about camouflage.
It's easy to help yourself to that 14th sugar cookie when you know you'll be wearing heavy sweaters and black pants for the next five months.
Plus, you can always delude yourself into thinking you'll embark on a new diet Jan. 1, and you'll magically drop any extra pounds.
Unfortunately, now I've been caught with my (giant) pants down. My boss is sending me to Los Angeles.
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On the one hand, I am ecstatic that I get to do something so exciting.
On the other, I am terrified.
What on earth will I wear?
Not only am I "out-of-the-dating-market-forever-chubby," but I'm also about as hip as an episode of "Matlock."
From the jelly-stained bathrobe to the old Esprit sweatshirt, my wardrobe contains little that would be found in the pages of a fashion magazine. (Unless the wearer had a black bar across her eyes.)
In comparison, it's much easier to travel to places like Boston or New York. All you really need to do is wear black and avoid tennis shoes.
You won't be mistaken for a fashion model, but you won't need to accessorize with a stalk of wheat in your mouth, either.
The West Coast is much harder. L.A. clothes have to be simultaneously casual, chic and sexy. This will not work for me. I consider it sexy if I wear a turtleneck that reveals my forearms.
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Still, I'm trying to look my best. I've consulted all my co-workers who seem hipper than I (as in: all of them).
One guy said he thought Californians, who still consider this their winter, would be wearing sweaters. I nixed that idea after trying to imagine wearing a sweater with a straight face when it was 70 degrees outside.
I've also been doing my homework by watching, ahem, "real life" shows like the E! network's "Star Date," old "Baywatch" episodes and Avril Levigne videos. Apparently, if I'm going to fit in around L.A., I'll have to get on that "Extreme Makeover" reality show.
They may have to break out the Shop Vac-sized hose and attempt some industrial-strength liposuction. Plus, I will need a tummy tuck, Botox from the neck up, Barbie-hair implants, a leg-lengthening procedure and -- that fab look Michael Jackson has popularized -- my nose removed.
For further inspiration, I've watched every episode of "The Anna Nicole Smith Show." Twice.
If the zaftig gold-digger is any indication, I will need to pack a leatherette merry widow, a platinum corn-row wig, glittery jeans that are meant for a small child and some 7-inch stiletto sandals for any trips to the hotel gym.
Hollywood, here I come!
Swift writes a weekly column for The Forum. She can be reached at tammy.sletten@ndsu.nodak.edu
