I was born with the fashion sense of a platypus: lots of assorted parts coming together but nothing cohesive, nothing you could call style. 

It’s not that I haven’t tried to dress nice. I even did some fashion research and read an article that said I should find clothing that fits my personality to feel confident about my wardrobe. My personality is a cross between a hibernating bear and a librarian, so I guess I should wear furry blankets and mustard-colored cardigans? Done. 

The article also said to implement different colors and patterns, and not to be afraid to get out of my comfort zone. But my comfort zone is so comfy. Hence the name.

For a long time, my fashion palette consisted only of black; or gray, if the occasion called for levity. Walking through the grocery store, I was often mistaken for a murder of crows, but that might have been because of all the flapping and squawking.

So, I banned black from my closet, except for 13 black blouses because you never know when you’ll attend a My Chemical Romance concert. Then I decided any new clothes I purchased couldn’t be black. Now my closet is filled with a rainbow of dark navy, charcoal, espresso and eggplant for when I’m feeling whimsical.

The article suggested trying different styles. Trendy boxy tops look adorable on the pages of fashion magazines but turned me into SpongeBob. Maybe I should stop wearing striped socks with squeaky black shoes and white laces.

I just don’t know how to look effortlessly stylish although Vogue breaks it down into 79 manageable steps. I stopped reading after the one step suggested I wear one thing that scares me. Crocs are the most frightening thing I could think of. Nope.

Once, I was working at an event and was given a T-shirt to wear. I threw on a pair of shorts and called it good. My coworker showed up in her T-shirt matched with cute capris, colorful espadrilles and a rakish beret. I felt like Gollum standing next to her.

If I have to attend any social event, I get fashion paralysis, completely incapable of choosing an outfit. If the event is really fancy, I’ll spend at least 47 days riddled with anxiety about what to wear. My husband says, “Go buy something new,” but that makes it even worse because trying on clothes is a torture device invented during the Spanish Inquisition. 

First, the options are overwhelming. Second, what if I choose something too dressy? I don’t want to look like a wedding cake if the event calls for shortbread. Third, I want my clothes to feel comfy, which is the complete opposite of style. No wonder fashion models always look so angry.

The one area in fashion that I do shine is footwear because Chuck Taylors can be worn with anything. Barefoot is also an option I employ from May through October. (By Halloween, the soles of my feet are as tough as a Kevlar and as grungy as a music festival’s porta-potty.)

Oscar Wilde, my style guru, said, “Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.”

If every fashion trend comes back again, I’ll just stick with what I love: clothes that hide salsa stains and are super soft. Anna Wintour would have some disparaging glances to throw my way but it’s better than my platypus fashion that looks like I just crawled out of a swamp.