She's Apples

I must have looked just a little bit hopelessly and utterly lost.

It might have been the rolled up flannelette shirt and chesty bond singlet combo that did it, or perhaps that I'd ventured out of the house in my never-leaving-the-house-in-these-jeans jeans. Whatever the cause, the result has me both amused and confused.
Sitting next to me are two books on clothing, specifically which bits one should wear to avoid having people offer to loan you books on the subject.

I am still utterly bewildered. Its just clothes, isn't it?

When you get right down to it they are simply bits of fabric that cover up your fuzzy squishy bits. Where the hell did they get enough information to fill two complete books? And why, given that books seem to have enough space for silver glittery sandshoes and bizarre little sweater-ettes that would be hard pressed to keep a toaster toasty, have they neglected to mention the simple beauty of a threadbare flannie?

Still, you can't argue with a book. Books are serious.

So far there are 3 garbage bags and one laundry basket filled with things that I shouldn't be wearing. It isn't so much that they don't fit, though that is certainly the case with my cherry red slides and those mildly wedgie-ish jeans, it is more that they should be fitting someone around 10 years younger than me.

I am now officially hogget. No longer lamb and not quite mutton, and my wardrobe should probably reflect this. No, definitely. It should be unceremoniously stripped of its tummy-flashing lycra boob tubes and replenished with... what does a hogget-aged person wear on a night on the town?

Never fear, I'm sure there is a chapter on it here somewhere...