Whenever I have doubts about the classiness or sophistication of something I plan to buy or wear, I ask myself, “Is this something Audrey Hepburn would wear?” If the answer is, “No, but it would look really cute on Nipsey Russell,” I know I have to make a wiser choice.

And sometimes when I’m lying on the sofa in a particularly self-indulgent state of sloth, I ask myself, “Is this something Madonna would do? Would Madonna plod around in mismatched pajamas all day, brush her teeth as her sole concession to grooming, roll around in her own pretzel crumbs, and jeer at the hideous clothes selected for the makeover subjects on TLC’s A Makeover Story?” If the answer is, “No,” which it usually is, then I either succumb to inertia anyway and wind up hating myself not only for the duration of the wasted day but for the rest of the week in which that day falls or I go out for coffee and audition backup dancers for my next music video.

I hate feeling inferior. And that pesky Eleanor Roosevelt makes me feel like such a lowlife with that “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent” stuff. So. The only solution I can come up with is that I’ve got to find more suitable and appropriate people to pattern myself after and to compare myself with. (Yes, I know that sentence ends with a preposition. Shut up. You’re not better than I am for having noticed. I noticed too, you know.)

So now, instead of using Audrey Hepburn as my fashion icon, I’m going to use the floppy-limbed, mossy-toothed broad who often sprawls capriciously across a bench on the south side of Madison Square Park. And what’s really neat is that she can also double as my lifestyle barometer.

Because really, what self-acceptance boils down to is the realization that you are far superior to so many other people you deem “beneath” you! And besides, it’s not your fault that they’re inferior, anyway — it’s theirs, for consenting to it!