Each month, I consistently spend more shopping than I do refueling mine and the emperor’s cars. I have a 45 minute commute to work, which I travel approximately 57% of the days of the week. Granted, the empire owns two small automobiles one being a hybrid, but when it comes to my wardrobe, it consistently trumps fuel by an Andrew Jackson.

What is your shopping budget equivalent to: an album on iTunes? your utilities bill? your family’s grocery budget?

I breach commonly established fashion rules, with regularity. I wear black with brown. I relish pattern on pattern. My bag never duplicates the hue of my shoes. I fully comprehend why these rules were written, and I consciously choose to transgress them.

But some fashion commandments are impermeable: donning clothes that fail to fit, modeling garments in poor repair, publicly sharing the location of your panty line.

Sometimes we are oblivious to our own sins. Others are aware but neutralized against guilt. I speak to the latter category.

And I offer my own confession. When I have a day off to be spent intimately with just me and lappy (my macbook), I remain in my pajamas until afternoon. Sometimes people come to the door, and there I stand in my satin slippy and robe at 11:18 am. I used to be embarrassed, but now I feel indignant at the interruption of my slippy indulgence. I iron clothes nearly every morning and wear a minimum 3 inch heel at least 5 days a week. My sleepers never leave my front threshold, I believe that to be non-negotiable. And I must be fully dressed before my husband returns from work, my preference should not be forced on others. But late slippy mornings, I grant myself guiltlessly.

That’s my sin and my justification.

What’s your fashion faus paux and what’s your justification/rationalization for continuing to commit said fashion sin?