This is it, I thought to myself. Despite our precautions and rules, she’s done something terrible on the Internet.

My imagination began to churn. Was she e-mailing an incarcerated felon? Living in exotic pseudonymity? Buying all kinds of crap we didn’t need?

I addressed her sternly and demanded to know what was up.

“OK,” she said. “All right.” She cast her eyes downward. “I’m nominating you for the TV show What Not to Wear.”

Full disclosure: I’m kind of gross. I don’t have that thing that some women have—what’s the word for it? Panache? Perfect hygiene? I see other moms on school mornings wearing leather boots and makeup, and I just wonder how they do it. They’re waking up extra early, I guess, to shower and choose an outfit, while I’m forever handicapped by my affinity for sleep and elastic waistbands.

But still, I had to protest. “You want me to go on that show where they force frumpy people to shop for better clothes? I don’t need a fashion intervention.”

My daughter raised her eyebrows.

“I just bought five new shirts,” I said. It was true. Per my fall tradition, I’d gone to The Gap and bought the same long-sleeved cotton t-shirt in five different colors: black, white, khaki, olive, and (for days when I’m feeling crazy) magenta.

I peeked around her shoulder to look at the online application.

She’d written, “My mom really needs to be on your show. Her jeans are faded. Her shoes are brown. She wears the same shirt every day, just in different colors.”

I sniffed indignantly. “Well, one of those colors is magenta,” I said.

Leaning in, I saw that she’d listed my height as “tall” and my weight as “100 pounds.” (“That’s not right?” she asked. “Not quite,” I said.) For my Biggest Fashion Crimes, she’d put, “Never wears high heels,” and, “Seems to be stuck in my dad’s baggy sweatshirts.”

She’d also written, “My mom is outgoing, funny, kind, and giving. She really deserves a makeover.”

My heart welled with love and gratitude. I should have hugged her right then. Unfortunately, I scrolled to the bottom of the application instead, and saw that she had attached two extremely unflattering pictures of me. In both of the pictures, I was wearing my husband’s baggy sweatshirts.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I’m not going to be on that show, but I will take you to the mall sometime, and you can show me what you think I should wear.”

“Goody,” she said, and clapped her hands.

A few days later, we all got the flu. It took a while to recover, and even after the kids regained their energy, I felt trapped under a lingering malaise. My cough wouldn’t go away. My pajamas felt so good. I wanted to stay holed up in the house with nachos and the dog.

But my daughter hadn’t forgotten my promise. Last Saturday, she forced me into the shower, and then into my nicest jeans, and then into the minivan. I started pouting when we got to the mall parking lot. By the time we walked into Macy’s, I was feeling the way I used to when my mom took me to fabric stores as a kid: like my arms were elongating and my knuckles were dragging the ground.

“I don’t really want to do this,” I said nasally.

“Lighten up, Frances,” she said, although she has never seen Stripes.

Just then, a bright green frock caught my eye. I went to the rack, fingered the fabric, and said to my daughter, “This is nice. What do you think about this?”

She put her hands on her hips and said, “Mother, step away from the blouse.”

That interaction set the tone for the day. We had many more conversations in which she addressed me as “Mother.”

Like, “Mother, you get a dressing room while I find your size.”

And, “Mother. Please. No horizontal stripes.”

And, “Mother, there’s an issue with you and hats.”

In store after store, she picked out clothes for me, and I tried them on. It didn’t take long to figure out that she had two distinct styles in mind: Cocktail Party and Discotheque.

There was a sequined halter top over which she swooned and about which I said, “Totally impractical for Michigan winters.” (I mean, for crying out loud.)

There was a black dress that made my boobs look enormous, but in a bad way.

There was a gauzy blouse that turned out to be completely see-through. (“Oh no!” my daughter squealed when I walked out of the dressing room.)

There was a furry vest that made both of us sneeze.

There were “skinny jeans” in every hue.

And all of the shoes fell into one of two categories: black stiletto or turquoise flat. (According to my daughter, they would go with anything.)

Eventually, we found an outfit we both liked: dark jeans, a cobalt blue turtleneck, and a cute, belted jacket which, since it had short sleeves, would not function as an actual jacket. And black stilettos.

When I walked out of the dressing room wearing that getup, my daughter clasped her hands together and smiled dreamily, like she was the mom and I was the daughter trying on wedding gowns. “Perfect,” she said.

I had to agree. I looked fabulous.

“Are you going to buy it?” she asked.

After a quick glance at the price tags, I responded with a firm, “No.” The whole outfit cost almost $400. The non-jacket alone was $128. We left the department store empty handed and headed for the cookie store. When we’d settled at a table with our cookies and our slushies, I asked my daughter if she’d had fun. “Yes,” she said. “But I wish you could have bought that outfit.”

I looked at her then with an expression that, I’m sure, broadcast complete adoration. My beautiful girl. My preteen girl, with a sparkly purse. My baby girl, with frosting on her nose. I’d been happily spending a large chunk of our fashion budget on her for several years: pink ruffles at first, but now glitter and fur trim and (for some reason) tie-dye. In a way, it was like dressing up myself, since my daughter is, in fact, walking around in my old body.

But also, I knew, I had sometimes focused so much on her (and her brother and her dad and our house and yard and car and dog) that I had come to think of myself as someone behind the scenes. Sometimes a little invisible. (And who cares what an invisible person wears?)

That night, I opened my laptop and found the e-mail she’d written, nominating me for What Not to Wear. I read again the part where she said I was not only “funny” but also “kind and giving.” I remembered her dreamy look in the dressing room and understood that she didn't think I was invisible.

I was feeling a little reckless (perhaps because I was wearing my magenta shirt).

And you know what I did? I clicked “send.”

Heather Heath Chapman is a writer who lives in Ann Arbor. If she is selected for What Not to Wear, she will not cry, like people on that show tend to do. She will take the $5000 and get crazy in NYC. You can reach her at heatherchapman1@me.com.