I Can't Believe I Love the Red Carpet

I am not someone who would be considered a fashionista. My wardrobe contains mainly jeans and sweatshirts, and my shoe collection consists of snow boots, black Chuck Taylors, and one pair of flip flops. A busy stay-at-home mom to four children, the closest I come to glamour is when my only daughter puts "pretties" in my hair. Practicality is my life, and luxury and indulgence are foreign concepts to me.

Show me a red carpet, though, and none of that matters. I quickly become absorbed in the world of designers, jewelers, and haute couture. Whether it's the Grammys, the Oscars, or the Kid's Choice Awards, I can't look away. I expertly analyze cut, color, and body type. I carefully consider the merits of up-dos and casual curls, while appreciating the dramatic effects of makeup. I notice the earrings, the bracelets, and the rings. I note the subtle differences between clutches and evening bags, and even make decrees on whether or not nylons should have been worn, and if so, what color would have been best. I ruthlessly craft my own best and worst dressed lists, and I feel confident I could converse with Joan Rivers for hours. I am no longer sitting in my living room surrounded by cars, bits of play dough, teddy bears, and pieces of fruit snacks. Instead, I am standing on the red carpet, flawlessly dressed myself, interviewing Matt Damon and pleasantly surprised at his wit and candor.

But then, as suddenly as it all started, the red carpet ends, the award show starts, and my inner diva goes back to sleep. Joan Rivers won't take my calls, and Matt Damon sits in the front row of the theater while I sit on my couch. The dresses which were so alluring five minutes ago now seem ridiculous and uncomfortable. The delicate jewelry seems foolish to me, because one good tug on that necklace from a toddler and it would be toast. The shoes make me laugh out loud because who can play baseball in five inch heels? I roll my eyes at the massive amount of money spent on pure superficiality, and I gladly pick up the cars, play dough, teddy bears, and fruit snacks. I happily go back to my practical life.

Until I hear the siren call of, "Who are you wearing?" And it starts again.