Shopping with my 21-year-old, 5-foot-8 and 110-pound sister is often more like a lesson in self-esteem destruction than a fun afternoon out. But every now and again, I subject myself to the resulting self-loathing, in hopes that either her skinniness, her height or her style will rub off on me.
The good thing about hitting the shops with Dear Sister is that I usually get pretty good advice about what to try. The bad thing is no matter what it is, I either end up looking like a pregnant milkmaid, an out-of-work stripper or the ultimate in soccer mom chic, and resort to buying my 35th cardigan or my 410th plain tank top.
Keeping this in mind, I was more than a little apprehensive when Dear Sister offered to help me clean out my closet.
Dear Sister: Come on, it will be fun. And you will look like you are 26 again.
Me: I'm only 25.
DS: But you're still pushing 30.
I tried on every. article. of. clothing. I. owned.
DS: Um, you need to get rid of all the Mr. Rogers sweaters. You look like a librarian.
M: I am a librarian.
DS: But you don't have to look like it.
It was an uphill battle, and needless to say, I now have a half-empty closet. At least she couldn't touch my shoes.