Our Father who art in the Anthropologie clearance section, hear my prayer.
Give me strength to know kimono jumpsuit from gaucho clownpant & the wisdom to avoid both.
Lead me not to the flowers giving birth to flowers celebrating with yet more flowers shrug.
Deliver me from “whimsy” dear Lord, and please whisper a cautionary “tablecloth” in turn.
Remind me of the unintentional-dickey debacle of tunic 2008. Guide me from anything resembling a pinafore. This chin needs no decorative lobster bib accent, Dear God. You made my chin. I shouldn't have to tell you.
If a frock calls for a matching bonnet, Lord on High, please give me a sign--like that one time you sent a guy to yell at me to get my Holly Hobby ass out of his parking space. And if I ever use the word “frock” out loud, smite me Almighty, for I know not what I speak.
Release me from ruffles, as they only lead to a pigeon-chested bloomered baby-butt where two breasts once reclined.
Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow because maybe I'm rocking a soothsayer turban and that is not okay. Don't walk behind me, or I might get too jaunty with a Feline Fedora.
Just walk beside me and be my friend and tell me if this this newsboy makes my head look like a twist cone.
Your kingdom come, your will be done. On earth as it is in heaven—in either case I probably should not wear anything resembling an Obi Wan cape. Lead me not into jester prints. Deliver me from frills-on-hips skirts.
Now I lay me down in a dressing room heap, I pray the lord my dignity to keep. If I die before I wake, I won't be surprised because I can't get out of this wrap sweater coat dress potholder anyway.