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"  We asked two very different MC staffers to exchange clothes. Read on for their diaries of a traumatic week!  The Fashionista, in her favorite Marc by Marc Jacobs dress  Michelle has a go-for-it style.  &amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;gt; &amp;quot;At lunch the fashion department shuns me. Seems dressing off-trend \u2014 even for an assignment \u2014 is crossing a line. The plain-Jane looks Julia has selected for me are my worst nightmare. Can I be this shallow? Does fashion really regulate my self-esteem?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I get bored easily and dress each day based on different characters. I&amp;#039;m just dreading Julia&amp;#039;s colorless, boring clothes!&amp;quot; \u2014Michelle Reneau, Fashion Editor The Classic Girl, in her favorite Gap turtleneck  Julia loves her everyday look.  &amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;gt; &amp;quot;When my boss gushes about how &amp;#039;sassy&amp;#039; I look in Michelle&amp;#039;s clothes, I realize this experiment includes shock treatment. Then I hear everyone hooting at her in my fave pencil skirt and turtleneck. Is my wardrobe so hilarious? Am I just too uptight?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I admire Michelle as a brilliant stylist. But in her clothes, will I look like I never made it home from last night&amp;#039;s groove at some club?&amp;quot; \u2014Julia Scirrotto, Copy Chief   Julia, Day 1  I was the first to mock Jessica Simpson in those infamous high-waist-jeans photos, so imagine my shock when high-waisters are exactly what Michelle packs for me on day one of our fashion swap. Gone are my cutesy-comfy ballet flats and chiaroscuro of office-appropriate separates. Instead I&amp;#039;ve got a couple of five-inch wood carvings strapped to my feet and a red silk balloon-sleeve blouse. Michelle is a brilliant stylist, but I stare dubiously at my reflection. Do I look retro-chic, or like I never made it home from last night&amp;#039;s groove at Studio 54? The outpouring of compliments at work catches me pleasantly off-guard. My boss rushes out of a meeting to ogle the outfit, and I think she&amp;#039;s going to shed tears of joy at the sight of me in color. All of a sudden, I&amp;#039;m &amp;quot;Sassy!&amp;quot; and &amp;quot;Trendy!&amp;quot; according to multiple sources \u2014 a real office head-turner. Thing is, I&amp;#039;ve always felt plenty sassy in my own clothes. I start to fear people have been missing that side of me. As if on cue, word spreads that Michelle is skulking around the office in my pencil skirt/turtleneck combo and librarian specs. Everyone thinks it&amp;#039;s hilarious, but I feel a pang. What&amp;#039;s so hilarious about one of my go-to outfits?  I shake it off and decide to make the most of my temporary diva-dom with dinner at one of Michelle&amp;#039;s favorite restaurants \u2014 a dark, moody wine bar downtown. My boyfriend, Reed, meets me there and is awed by the color \u2014 but not my sinking body language. &amp;quot;Try not to cringe,&amp;quot; he says, adjusting my slumping shoulders. &amp;quot;If you look all slouchy and uncomfortable, that&amp;#039;s how you&amp;#039;re going to feel.&amp;quot; I do feel uncomfortable (my feet are blistered and Michelle&amp;#039;s chain-strap bag has become an albatross on my wrist), but the outfit only works if I play along. For the rest of the evening I concentrate on confident posture. A little too hard, apparently, because I take a nosedive down a flight of stairs when we&amp;#039;re escorted to our table. All eyes on me again, but oh, well. I&amp;#039;m getting used to the attention.  Julia, Day 2  Today, I&amp;#039;m the walking cross-pollination of Jackie O and Goldie Hawn circa Laugh-In \u2014 and I think I like it. When I first saw Michelle&amp;#039;s flannel polka-dot baby-doll dress the exact shade of Tropicana OJ, I described it as &amp;quot;clown pajamas,&amp;quot; but I feel so mod, so vibrant, I can hardly stand myself. Every store window and every shiny black car I pass en route to work presents another opportunity to check myself out. And I&amp;#039;m not the only one copping a stare. &amp;quot;Orange is my favorite color,&amp;quot; a loafer at an intersection shares. Against all odds, it&amp;#039;s becoming mine, too.  Sadly, certain coworkers don&amp;#039;t share my love of, well, me. People support the bright hue and my Sienna Miller-inspired black eyeliner, but the ruffles and polka dots get low marks. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t like your new look,&amp;quot; one male coworker declares, his face scrunched up like he&amp;#039;s smelling rotten garbage. &amp;quot;All this says is &amp;#039;look at me.&amp;#039; Your old look is more sophisticated.&amp;quot; Sophistication is a matter of opinion, but one top editor agrees there&amp;#039;s something not quite right about me in these clothes: &amp;quot;I mean, this is adorable on you, but you look like you&amp;#039;re in costume. On Michelle, it&amp;#039;s just Michelle.&amp;quot; The word &amp;quot;costume&amp;quot; stings a bit, but she&amp;#039;s right. I can learn to play with color, flirt with a shorter hemline maybe, but I&amp;#039;ll never be Michelle. Fortunately for my inner attention whore, I get to pretend for a little while longer. Next up, eveningwear: hot pink-heeled Manolos, an iridescent off-the-shoulder cocktail dress, and a sequined hat (quite the departure from my usual Friday night uniform of, um, whatever I wore to work that day).  I&amp;#039;m a tad overdressed for the dive bar where Reed and I meet up with friends for chicken wings and drinks, but it certainly makes for lively conversation. Comparisons fly, everything from &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re a flapper!&amp;quot; to &amp;quot;That hat is like the condom of a Russian czar.&amp;quot; Lucky for me, Reed has my back again. &amp;quot;Listen, no bullshit,&amp;quot; he tells our crew. &amp;quot;If girls dressed this way all the time, it would be hot.&amp;quot; No one disagrees. Julia, Day 3 The fun of playing dress-up hits a major snag when, on Saturday morning, I can&amp;#039;t get out the door in time to make my train to the suburbs, where I&amp;#039;m scheduled to attend a high-school graduation party. Whereas I&amp;#039;d usually throw a denim pencil skirt and a few matching tops into a shoulder bag, I&amp;#039;ve got piles of accessories, shoes, and clothes to pack \u2014 and that takes time. I miss my train by seconds and collapse onto a bench and burst into tears. To make matters worse, I&amp;#039;ve gotten escalator grease up and down the legs of Michelle&amp;#039;s pink skinny jeans. How colorful.  I finally make it to my destination and change into my party outfit: a thick brocade shift with a silver, gold, and copper geometric print, plus a pair of six-inch patent-leather Mary Janes. It was one thing to wear such a look to work, where everyone was in on the joke. But how will my unsuspecting family react to this light-reflecting number?  I feel like an NBA star at a little person&amp;#039;s convention as I walk across the manicured lawn toward the hub of graduation-party activity. Cousins, second cousins, aunts, and uncles greet me with warm but guarded hugs, and their unusually reserved smiles are all it takes to force a confession out of me. &amp;quot;This outfit isn&amp;#039;t mine, by the way, it&amp;#039;s a work thing. Can you believe these shoes? The girl I traded with actually wears them to work. You should see the other getups she&amp;#039;s had me in! Four days, and she has all of my normal clothes....&amp;quot; I rattle off disclaimers with more intensity than I actually feel, just to drive home the fact that I&amp;#039;m still the same old me under all this glitz. Everyone visibly relaxes, and one host starts laughing: &amp;quot;I didn&amp;#039;t want to say anything, but I was thinking you&amp;#039;d gone completely New Yorker on us!&amp;quot; Someone hands me a tan blazer and I slip into a pair of borrowed flip-flops. The rest of the party passes without incident, but I can&amp;#039;t shake the feeling that I&amp;#039;ve hijacked attention from the graduate.  Later in the night, my two hometown cohorts Lisa and Kevin pick me up for an ice-cream run. I attempt the full outfit \u2014 shoes and all \u2014 one more time, but Lisa flat-out refuses to be seen with me unless I take it down a notch. &amp;quot;You have to lose the shoes and cover up the dress with my sweater. I&amp;#039;m not in the mood to be stared at.&amp;quot; Her face betrays no hint of humor or hyperbole. I turn to Kevin for support, but he tells me I look like I&amp;#039;m about to go clubbing with Mischa Barton. &amp;quot;So you&amp;#039;re saying I look ridiculous?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Utterly.&amp;quot;  Hate to break it to you, John Lennon, but we all do not, in fact, shine on. When I zip on Lisa&amp;#039;s hoodie, she nods with approval. &amp;quot;Good, now it just looks like you&amp;#039;re wearing a crazy skirt.&amp;quot;  Julia, Day 4  I wake up on Sunday with a fashion hangover. What had been such an exciting, illuminating exercise at first now just feels exhausting. I&amp;#039;ve got calf pain, shin pain, and foot pain (not to mention blisters) from the assortment of heels I&amp;#039;ve shoved my feet into, and although I get a much-needed break from the high stuff today with a pair of flat gladiator sandals, they look nothing short of atrocious on me. I stare at the mirror \u2014 this time in horror \u2014 and all I see are thick calves bulging over and through the criss-crossing leather straps. The silk-printed tent dress I&amp;#039;ve been assigned for today \u2014 so lovely and prismatic on the hanger with its swirling pattern of jewel tones \u2014 only highlights the dumpiness of my legs. I hate it. True, I&amp;#039;ve hit a low point with the gladiators, and I&amp;#039;m looking forward to wearing my own clothes again. But I also don&amp;#039;t want to fade comfortably back to black. If I&amp;#039;ve learned anything from Michelle, it&amp;#039;s that fashion should be exuberant, life-affirming, and adventuresome. I&amp;#039;m not a postmodern canvas, but I&amp;#039;m also not a black-and-white movie still from the 1950s. I want to find the happy medium.  Before bed (gladiators and tent dress safely packed up to return to Michelle), I pull a red dress out of my closet that I&amp;#039;ve never been brave enough to wear before. I decide it&amp;#039;s the perfect back-to-work-as-myself look \u2014 because I can be sassy on my own. I&amp;#039;ll just be wearing it with ballet flats and a black cardigan.  Michelle, Day 1  I bolt awake in my usual &amp;quot;what to wear?&amp;quot; panic, then I remember Julia has preselected today&amp;#039;s black turtleneck and charcoal pencil skirt. (I call her style &amp;quot;ab drab.&amp;quot;) I glance wistfully at my Chlo\u00E9 heels, wondering if (with Julia&amp;#039;s glasses) I could make this into a sexy-librarian look. Alas, using anything of your own is against the rules.  Feeling like an actress playing the role of the town spinster, I headed off to my first fashion appointment. At the Hugo Boss showroom, I nearly die with envy when I see a Cosmo editor in a great Jean Paul Gaultier nautical ensemble. Blast this silly experiment! I feel like a self-conscious middle schooler destined to eat alone at the cafeteria. I have an inner battle with myself: Do I pretend to not know her, or say hello and reveal my fashion-swap secret? I choose the latter and she admits she hadn&amp;#039;t recognized me. Super! Maybe I can fly under the radar and avoid fashion humiliation for the rest of the week. &amp;quot;Wow, you look ... different,&amp;quot; the PR manager says diplomatically. I tell her about the swap and she says, &amp;quot;I was wondering where you were going with this look.&amp;quot; Fashion translation: &amp;quot;Your outfit is inexplicably horrific.&amp;quot;  Back at work, I check my BlackBerry. A former MC colleague has sent me an e-mail subject line: &amp;quot;I saw you on the street today.&amp;quot; I open it: &amp;quot;What the hell were you wearing?&amp;quot; it says. At lunch, the fashion department shuns me. My nightmare has come true: I am the girl alone in the cafeteria! I&amp;#039;m scheduled to meet up with a friend visiting from Japan. We head for drinks and dinner on Manhattan&amp;#039;s Lower East Side. I meet a cute graffiti artist but am so self-conscious, I overcompensate with sarcasm. Feeling out of place, I text my friends: &amp;quot;Someone stole my superpowers from me.&amp;quot; One replies, &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s like kryptonite and Superman! Nylon tote + flats + knee-length hemline = your power eliminator.&amp;quot; Sadly, he&amp;#039;s right. Can I really be this shallow? Does my clothing control my self-esteem?  Michelle, Day 2  I try to go forward with a fresh attitude \u2014 I mean, it&amp;#039;s jacket, jeans, and a T-shirt today \u2014 but I still want to hide behind other people. My ex asks me out for drinks, and when I&amp;#039;m almost out the door, I cheat: I ditch the prescribed boring black blazer and attempt to salvage J&amp;#039;s so-over boot-cut jeans by cuffing them. I am going for a geek-chic crossed with a James Dean look. But I added some red lipstick to ensure that no one would actually mistake me for James Dean. I am again headed out to the Lower East Side, where everyone tries very hard to look like they don&amp;#039;t try hard ... so my look may actually fly.  Things I have learned thus far:  1. Over-the-top fashion requires simple hair for balance. The black clothes have inspired a &amp;quot;new hair&amp;quot; bug. Maybe bangs, or a cropped French bob? I immediately e-mail our deputy beauty director to recommend a good hairstylist for an edgy cut ASAP. I may or may not be delusional and desperate at this point.  2. Pencil skirts are restrictive! I verbally attack Julia throughout the day, telling her only crazy people glutting for punishment would wear them by choice! Or noncurvy people with flat stomachs and perfect posture.  3. I have a new appreciation for my industry. My fashion experiment has run concurrent with the new Resort collection previews and I am incredibly inspired and overwhelmingly excited about the clothes I have seen this week. It&amp;#039;s quite refreshing \u2014 normally, I&amp;#039;m not easily impressed.  4. Form-fitting clothing provokes many catcalls (even if it is a plain gray T-shirt). All boys like tight clothes. My worst nightmare.    Michelle, Day 3  I run a few errands, but am claustrophobic in the wretched denim pencil skirt and tight black T-shirt. I am forced to retreat to my couch \u2014 the only place I am allowed to wear my own clothes. This evening I get dressed for the ballet. Is there no respite from sensible black \u2014 even on weekends? The on-the-town look Julia offers is a black strapless dress, black cardigan, and pink pearls (vomit!). Maybe this is a perfectly appropriate outfit for the occasion. However, I am not a fan of blending in with the crowd. At least at the ballet, I&amp;#039;ll ID with the dancers \u2014 yes, ballet flats again. &amp;quot;An aberration&amp;quot; is how an elderly friend sweetly summarizes my getup. Meanwhile, she&amp;#039;s resplendent in her signature Chanel vintage costume jewelry. I feel like I&amp;#039;m about to go insane.  Michelle, Day 4  I head to Cornelia Day Spa. It&amp;#039;s all about relaxing here, right? Wrong. A fashion-insider hot spot, everyone is secretly judging shoes and bags peeking out of robes. My manicurist asks me if I am still in school. Perplexed, I tell her I am 27. She laughs and exclaims I look no older than 16! I am convinced the culprit is my simplistic outfit and uncomfortable slouching.  On my way to a movie date I consider hijacking every bag, shoe, and bangle I pass. I remember Julia mentioning that sometimes she &amp;quot;spices things up&amp;quot; with a fabric headband, but I cannot locate it in the bag she packed for me.  Later, on the train, I sit next to two adorable boys: one is in skinny jeans and what I think to be Yohji Yamamoto shoes. I want to compliment him, but suddenly I am overcome with the fear they will assume I am mocking them. This is what average people do when they are afraid of fashion. They brazenly point things out that they do not understand. For example, &amp;quot;NICE HAT, did you make it yourself?&amp;quot; I say nothing. I see the movie Waitress. It&amp;#039;s true that movies are an escape from reality: I fell hard for Keri Russell&amp;#039;s fab &amp;#039;80s wardrobe. Made a vow to find her Laura Ashley dress and navy Keds, and plan to soon rock prairie dresses like Chlo\u00EB Sevigny&amp;#039;s in Big Love. Tomorrow I plan to wear my off-the-shoulder teal jumpsuit, Grecian sandals, and as many gold necklaces as I can put on without choking myself. Even if my fashion-above-all philosophy is shallow and superficial, I&amp;#039;ll die defending my right to it. And I can say with certainty that I&amp;#039;ll never, ever again be shackled by pencil skirts. Unless, of course, Marc Jacobs puts them on the runway some season. Oh, fickle fashion. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.marieclaire.com/fashion/advice/a723/fashion-exchange/>