Let me ask you: Does Clothesmatology sound like a good idea to you? Does it sound "revolutionary" or realistic? Is there any information contained in the prior paragraph that might lead you to think, "Clothes... plus cosmetology... That could just work!"?

I didn't think so. Me, neither. Let me explain why I'm bringing it up, just to tap the molten core of despair that the idea of Clothesmatology has formed in my being.

For a time (ages 10 - present) during my childhood, I struggled with the twin demons of shyness and cluelessness, resulting in a long bout of friendlessness that I filled with reading, staring into space, and making catalogues advertising imaginary shoes. My shoe catalogue period was highly prolific, owing to the abundance of math paper and pencils doled out at school, and I created many fine collections of strappy sandals with obscenely high heels, suitable for wear at fine discos worldwide.

During the summers, when my access to math paper had been cut-off, I would busy myself reading biographies of great historical figures and cataloguing my back-to-school wardrobe in magic marker illustrations. First, I'd make a booklet of several sheets of paper and staple down the center. Next, I'd cut the entire booklet horizontally, almost to the staples. On the top half of each sheet, I'd draw a shirt. On each bottom, I'd draw a pair of pants or a skirt, until I'd drawn every article of clothing I owned that was suitable for school-wear. I can't remember what I did about my head--if I drew it on each page, or if there was indeed a third "tab" at the top. My guess is that I re-drew the head each time. As I've mentioned, without friends to fill up the hours, I had plenty of time to draw amateur, highly idealized portraits of myself, which turned out to be very good practice for having an online journal.

Over the years, I made many fake brochures, cataloguing my wardrobe and my stuffed animal collection among other things. One brochure I made to amuse myself featured the aformentioned "Clothesmatology." I can't remember exactly what it looked like, but in essence, it was a piece of 8.5 x 11 paper, folded vertically into thirds, with text claiming that applying make-up to one's wardrobe could not only update the clothes, but result in a more flattering color scheme. Specific suggestions included applying blush to the collar of a white blouse in gentle, swirling strokes, to give a healthy glow to the face, or adding a design drawn in complementary tones of eye-shadow to a skirt. It was a momentary amusement, and I quickly forgot about it.

Years later, when I'd moved away from home to go to school, and was feeling stressed and contemplating what kind of job I might get, my father said, "Well, what about that thing you came up with? That wardrobe thing?" I couldn't understand what he was talking about. My mother had recently become obsessed with "Color Me Beautiful," and refused to wear anything not specifically dictated by her wallet of colored fabric samples. I thought he was suggesting that I become a Color Me Beautiful consultant, which was extremely far from my desired career path. His suggestion was typically off-the-mark, and I started to get annoyed. I asked him if that's what he meant. "No," he answered. "You know, that putting make-up on clothes thing," he said, waiting for me to acknowledge the greatness of his idea. I stared at him. "That 'Clothesmatology' thing. Why couldn't you do that?" he prompted, still waiting for my Eureka. He was deeply disappointed by my reaction, which was immediate, loud disbelief. "Clothesmatology?" I asked, "That isn't even a real thing!" He insisted that it could be. He insisted that women would, too, put make-up on their clothes. As I grew more and more exasperated, he grew more obstinate. There was, too, a way to make money at this! Women would, too, put blush on their blouses!

The argument, because it did turn into an argument, lasted a while, and ended typically, with me wondering how exactly to diagnose his ailment, and him pouting at my lack of appreciation for his brilliant idea. He was always coming up with ideas that were over the border into loony town, and then pouting dramatically and acting wounded when the ideas were questioned, bolstering years of self-pity over minor events, convincing himself that he was surrounded by mean-spirited bullies who wanted desperately to see him fail.

Looking back on the Clothesmatology argument, I wonder how long he'd been crazy, and why it took me so long to recognize his insanity. I guess when you're raised with something, it's hard to see it, and because he presented all his insane schemes as perfectly logical, I had to wait until I was older and had a basis for comparison, to understand how deranged he really was. (Is. He's still crazy.)

It is no wonder I question my judgment on everything I do, and no wonder that I scan the faces of the people I'm talking to, looking for signs that I'm losing my grip. Because sometimes, it's hard to tell.

But seriously. Clothesmatology? That's wacked. Even I know that.

P.S.