Achieving sophistication is my goal as I stride down the shop-lined streets of Manhattan. While I normally resemble a lump of cottage cheese as I lie prostrate on the couch during my lazy summer days, I alter my style and disposition when I prepare to attack the concrete jungle of New York. Confidently carrying myself in a designer dress down Fifth Avenue, I am tapped on the shoulder by a passerby. Proud to be mistaken for a knowledgeable New Yorker who could help the woman navigate the city (I’m unfortunately an inhabitant of Urban Sprawl, New Jersey), I turn my head and slide a hospitable smile on my face. But I don’t get to point her in the direction of Rockefeller Plaza or Times Square. Instead, she enlightens me to the fact that the back of my trendy dress is sloppily tucked into my magenta polka dotted underwear, now revealed to the pedestrians walking along 40th and 41st streets. Somehow, I don’t think the editors of Vogue will be contacting me for fashion tips any time soon.