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I can't believe I'm going to finally meet the woman who diagnosed me as a narcissist about a year ago. At the very least, I hope I'll get an autographed copy of the book on narcissism she hands out to all her prodigious (as she calls them on her web site) male clients.

Other than "let's get this damn thing over with," I really can't think of anything I have to say at this meeting, so I'll let my attorney do most of the talking (which will be a great source of relief to him). My biggest concerns are what to wear and what to do with my hair. Do I want to look like a hot and steamy cougar or do I want to go with dowdy and desperate housewife? Flashy and wild or sedate and intelligent? Neat and put together or shabby chic? French braid? Helmet hair? Pigtails?

My therapist thinks I'm being ridiculous. "Wear what makes you feel good," she suggested. Good advice, but I'm just not sure sweats, a chocolate-stained tee shirt, and a baseball cap will help me project the right image. Although there is something to be said for looking homeless when you're trying to establish need.

Now that I've spent three weeks in the garment industry, I have a greater understanding of the importance of fashion. Women come into the yoga store, their eyes filled with hope, convinced the right pair of spandex pants will send them back out looking like the model pictured in the window. Without even so much as a small sweep of an air brush. Though I have yet to see any obvious Cinderella-style transformations, I have been amazed at how a bit of fabric working a little magic on a pesky muffin top can put a spring in a woman's step. To the casual observer, she looks the same, but if she feels as if she's landed on top of the world, who cares what anyone else sees?

Like so much other clutter, the image I project at the meeting from hell will be mostly in my head. And if I decide I feel best if I am dressed up like a middle aged French maid, then fishnets it will be. Hopefully nobody will call security. Whatever I choose to wear, my most important accessory will be the "Keep Out" sign I hang on my psyche; it's my head, and, at this meeting at least, there'll be no room for anyone's opinion about me but my own.

As important as my attire might be, I'm going to try not to spend too much time worrying about it; I'd bet an autographed copy of the narcissism primer the botox queen will for some reason have to cancel the meeting. Frankly, the only evidence I have of her existence is a snazzy web site, a smattering of shoddy documents, and a free diagnosis. But hope springs eternal; I'm replenishing my makeup collection, just in case.