I wanted to make the right impression for my first trip to New York. I wanted to blend in, I wanted to stand out, I wanted to be trendy, I wanted to be classic. Basically, I wanted to cover up the fact that I hadn’t read a fashion magazine in years. As a result, my suitcase was still empty the morning of my flight. I stood there in my underwear with my hands on my hips, studying my closet.

I was going to the glamorous New York Gift Show with the jewelry design company I sometimes do events for. It was a stylish event, one where I imagined people looking sleek and delicious in powerful stilettos. The design team was bringing samples of the current collection and I was going to help set up the display booth and work with customers. I was thrilled. Then terrified. Then thrilled again.

"Me?" I asked the universe. "They really want me?"

I shifted my stance, "Yes, you. Why not you?"

"I’ve never seen this kind of show before," I told me. "And I’ve never been to New York. What if I have to find my way around all by myself?"

"You can do this," I said encouragingly. "You are good at reading maps. You delivered pizza, right?"

I did this demurring/bolstering thing for a while as a loud buzz started in the back of my head. I stopped my arguing to let the sound forms words.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO WEAR?" it shouted.

"Oh crap," I thought. "I still don’t know."

My brain hurried to open that dusty box in my memory files marked "fashion tips." It’s filled with clippings from magazines and notes I thought were important at the time. Unfortunately, it isn’t very organized. My mind blurted out:

"Never wear hosiery with open-toed shoes."

"Short skirts with low heels; long skirts with high heels."

"Never leave the house without lipstick."

That last one was from my mom. Her other advice is, "Keep your pedal digits polished." As a result of my childhood, I keep a tidy pedicure even in the winter and wear lipstick to the gym. Unfortunately, I still couldn’t decide what to put in my suitcase.

I kept digging. Something in the great assembly of advice in my style box HAD to help me pack for my trip to New York. I searched page after mental page as I paced the floor. I went to my closet again, my mind furiously reciting fashion "don’ts":

"Never wear white after Labor Day."

"Never wear linen in the winter."

"Never mix navy and black."

"Never, never, never . . . "

I screamed and put my hands over my ears -- silencing the voices in my head. I blew out a huge breath and attacked my closet. I gathered every piece of black clothing I owned and crammed it into my suitcase. Black skirts, black boots, black sweaters and black pants.

"Black is slimming," I heard my memory add in support as I ran from closet to suitcase.

"Everything goes with black," it said happily.

"Black is always sophisticated," it cheered.

When my suitcase could hold no more, I gave it a nod and zipped it shut. "There." I said to my luggage. I felt triumphant. There was only one problem: what would I wear to the airport?