I'm having another wardrobe crisis, people. This means that once again I'm threatening to set my closet on fire and wear nothing but skateboarder t-shirts and these fantastic new jeans I got at the Levi's outlet in the "Husky Girls" section that bow out and make my legs look like I've been riding a pony all day. For shoes I'm thinking of strapping some bits of tire tread to my feet with electrical tape, or possibly organic hemp rope for a touch of Masai warrior chic. And it's all because I work in Montecito. I can't go to the goddamned post office without running a gantlet of plastic surgery victims tiptoeing up to the Montecito Market for their lunchtime bottle of Dom Perignon. In their context, suddenly everything I own, wear, carry, and drive feels like a statement. The dirty Volvo bought out of paranoia now makes me feel like a prep school mom. The sturdy Coach bag, once a practical investment, now feels expensive and showy. Women look at my fantastic, spiritually-superior yoga muscles and ask, "Who's your trainer?" Or, "Pilates?" And God knows what they think of my crow's feet, my jawline, my unBotox'd forehead. I'm so tired of feeling examined. But next month we're moving our office to downtown Santa Barbara, into half of a gallery space next to a tiny barber shop and across the street from that Mexican bar where all the local softball teams go to get plastered after the game. Hence I am hoping that my highly professional husky girl jeans, goofy t-shirts, and third-world footwear will propel me into ninja-like invisibility for awhile. I need a selfconsciousness break.