Dear Fashion Industry

True, I'm not a style icon. Certainly not since I had children and don't have the time or energy to put together an outfit that consists of anything more mature than a T-shirt, cuffed up jeans (because they are too long) and goofy sneakers. More often I look like a Pez-chomping high-school boy than a 30-year old mother. But I try. And I spend more time than I should perusing fashion magazines and drooling over the wardrobes of many a celebrity. Maybe I don't dress for my body type, but that's because I don't like blazers and my boobs bust the seams of any button-down top you could give me, and because I have an affinity for large, colorful prints and flowy lines. So with some exceptions, like this 80s trash you keep trying to shove down my throat, I'll buy most of your ideas, in theory if not in pocketbook. But I simply must address a grave concern of mine. Maybe I'm in the minority, but you couldn't get any of these ankle boots on my feet unless it was on my cold, dead body, and good luck even then. I'm sorry, but they are ugly. They don't look good with mini-dresses or cropped pants. Truly, I think I've never seen anything uglier in my whole life. I think I'd wear feathered, sky-high bangs before I'd lace one of those babies up. I mean, I love Little House on the Prairie as much as the next gal, but this ain't the prairie with a long dress to cover them up, and I ain't Half Pint.

Also, what's up with the Oxford booties, hmm? That's really pushing it, you know. I mean, that's a very easy line to cross straight into Hideous Town, Uglyville County U.S.A. I almost like them, especially if they are like these. Very cute, indeed. But tread carefully, my friends. Tread very carefully. And the peep-toe bootie thing? Just stop. Stop it now before you hurt yourself. Or my corneas.

Love,
Kelli