Kim Wetter

Last night, I had a dream that I was a club promoter in Miami. I wandered the beaches, looking for girls to come to my clubs. This would never, in a million years, happen. Normally you can point something out from your day as to why you dreamed something and I really have no idea. I listened to no Will Smith, the only things I watched were KU basketball and Pride and Prejudice, and I have not seen a bikini in quite some time. I mean, come on, I live in Seattle. But, I woke up and contemplated it, initially thought of Jersey Shore and then thought of my own brush with reality TV.

A couple of years ago, some friends sat down at the computer and typed up an application for me to be on What not to Wear. At the time, I was working for BuddyTV, a television and entertainment news blog. Their premise was simple: I dreamed of working in television and here I was meeting very important actors, producers, etc looking like shit. My wardrobe consisted over extremely old clothing bought in high school, probably at Pac Sun. I often wore items that didn’t fit because either I’d grown or shrunk them in the wash because I throw everything in on cold cycle. A larger portion than I care to admit consisted of t-shirts I had gotten while in a sorority at college. Style is not something I had or even have now.I was the perfect candidate for What not to Wear. I had no idea they had done any of this.

They were surprised when they didn’t hear back from the casting directors. How could they not see how much help I needed? The months rolled on and they eventually gave up hope that I would receive professional help. They dragged me to a store and forced me to buy a pair of skinny jeans and several tops that weren’t t-shirts. It was a painful trip. I complained the entire way and when asked my opinion, I would just stare at them with my “I’m gonna shank you” face.

A couple months after our shopping trip, I had become extremely comfortable with my new clothing, finally favoring it over the sorority t-shirts. That’s when they got the call.

The casting directors wanted to come check me out. They were going to secretly follow me around Seattle for three days to get a glimpse of my every day wear.

My friends panicked. I didn’t look nearly as bad as I had before. What were they going to do?

The obvious answer presented itself: hide my new clothing. My roommate snuck into my room and grabbed all of my most reasonable gear. Two out of the three days, I looked horrible, just as they had hope. I noticed my clothes were missing but figured I must’ve been drunk and misplaced them somewhere. By day two and a half, I had reasoned I had not gotten drunk and stripped in unusual places. That is ridiculous. I have never and hopefully will never do that. I felt like I was going crazy. I talked about it non stop. So, I washed the one pair of skinny jeans I could find for the final day of this three day stalking event.

I arrived at the Storm game in Converse, a peacoat and skinny jeans. I looked, for all intents and purposes, just like any other Seattle hipster. I wandered to the bar across the street for some beers before the game. It was there that I took off my peacoat to reveal a “yellow” shirt that I had washed with jeans one too many times and it had turned a gross yellow-green color. And it was too big. My friends breathed a sigh of relief but they had to get me to go back outside. The cameras were waiting and they had not gotten a shot of my with my yellow-green tee.

Unfortunately, it is very difficult to get me to leave a bar. When they finally did, the game was about to start and I put back on my peacoat. Day 3 fail.

Luckily, I nailed my secret interview. I was going to a movie and was approached by a girl with a cameraman. She convinced me that she was doing her thesis on whether or not people go to malls anymore and my friends had pointed me out as a perfect interview subject. I should have found it suspect as soon as the topics started to turn to my personal life. Did my mom like the clothing I wear? Did I use my sense of humor to hide my insecurities? These are not normal questions.

But, I never faltered. I gave a 30 minute interview. They asked me to describe what I was wearing and I told them I could easily be mistaken for a homeless person. It went perfectly. My friends, standing by watching, could not have been more excited.

Unfortunately for them, the casting director called and said they weren’t going to use me. I had since moved jobs and worked in a more corporate, cubicle environment and it blew their story. The casting director said she loved me but that the producer just wouldn’t go for it. Producers are lazy – they like to have their stories handed to them.

My friends take some of the blame. One was asked if I would be mad if I found out what they’d done and she admitted she wasn’t sure if I’d still be her friend. I would, of course, be her friend but I would not have liked to be on that show. I hate shopping with a passion and getting me to care about clothing would’ve been a long shot. Stacy and Clinton would have thrown out my “best outfits” with pride and I would’ve shrugged my shoulders. They would send me off to go shopping by myself and I’d hit a bar. They’d take me to a fancy New York boutique and I would scoff at the price of the clothing. I would drag my feet and complain. Teaching me how to do my own makeup and hair in the morning? Forget about it.

So, it never happened.

My “style” hasn’t gotten any better. Less than a year ago, I proudly announced that I was going to buy different colored Hanes v-necks and just wear those from now on. That way, I wouldn’t have to think about it. And besides, I have great boobs.

Obviously I don’t do that. A dutiful friend took me shopping and handled it very well. My complaints only made her laugh and I walked away with a large chunk of a new wardrobe. Mostly v-neck t-shirts, but hey, a tiger can’t change his strips.

**note** The answers to the interviewer’s extremely personal questions: 1. My mom came to visit and threw out a pair of brown plaid men’s shorts I had because she found them that disgusting. She also went to a neighbor’s garbage because she knew I’d just go and dig them back out and wash them. 2. I answered that my sense of humor came from decided to follow around two of the loudest girls in my 8th grade classroom. I got my sense of humor from being a follower. Isn’t that where most people get it?