Are You Thinking What I’m Thinking?! Makeover! Girlie Squeal

As I sit on the couch for the seventh straight hour while eating an implausible amount of frozen French fries, my hang-over draws me in to a familiar series of thoughts: “I am such a fat cow. Why do I spend every Sunday like this? Next week will be different. Next week I will start jogging.” This thought pattern repeats itself every week. Never is it more pronounced than on New Year’s morning, when I make the customary pledge to drink less, eat less and exercise more. Besides post-breakup periods, January is the most popular time of year for this urge towards self-transformation. It is approaching quickly. And if there’s anything I’ve learned from TLC, it’s that a makeover can solve all my problems.

There is something incredibly satisfying about an ugly duckling story. With the current onslaught of makeover shows on television, I am never left wanting. My personal favorite is What Not To Wear, a show that stars two bitchy yet loveable fashionistas, Stacy and Clinton, who go across to the country in order to tell people that they look like shit. They secretly film their poorly dressed victims and proceed to air these images on television. After their applicable breakdowns, the sloppy subjects go to New York City where they shop ‘til they drop and eventually see the light at end of their unstylish tunnels (by following a series of rules that Stacey and Clinton have created for them). In the end, they always look fabulous, with a new wardrobe, new hair, new make-up and (of course) a new lease on life. The transformation is inevitably heart-warming, and I’ll admit that I’ve cried a number of times as the newly formed hottie reunites with her (jealous) friends and (horny) husband at the end of the show. These magical moments make me believe that change is possible (if only I had the right make-up brush).

 The creepy part about What Not To Wear is the uncanny way that the fashion rules can get into your head. I often find myself watching strangers in public places while running a Stacey and Clinton dialogue in my head, like, “Oh god! Look at those jeans! It looks like she has absolutely no ass at all!” I watch and I judge. I also imagine myself being secretly video taped every time I leave the house. Once, I stopped myself from walking the dog in my jogging pants (when is there ever a more appropriate time to wear jogging pants?!) because I could imagine how the secret footage might look. Stacey and Clinton have seeped into my unconscious. I monitor my clothing decisions based on the feeling that someone is watching me (and judging my ass). Foucault would have such a hard-on.

The obvious popularity of these types of shows makes me question the nature of this contemporary fascination with self-transformation.