It’s less about the clothing specifically and more about the freedom in their choices. The women of Rock of Love possessed a heady combination of delusion and self-confidence that allowed them to fully inhabit their clothing choices without giving a shit. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” the words that tumbled out of contestant Tiffany’s mouth as she was quietly escorted off the premises at the end of the first season of the show, are a rallying cry. That is the spirit of the way I want to dress this summer, or at least one of the many identities I will attempt to inhabit as I work my way back to “normal,” whatever that means.

There are no handkerchief hem going-out tops in my future; my interpretation is my own. Rubbery mules that smell like bubblegum, with a respectable 2-inch block heel and a faux snakeskin strap—yes! Shorts—very short—are a yes. A brassiere as a top, depending on the brassiere, a maybe. I can’t in good faith contemplate PVC, pleather, or anything that does not breathe, but I can consider something that suggests a wild side, even though I am not wild by any stretch of the imagination and would like to be left alone. Halter tops. The “tramp stamp” I’ve dreamed of since last spring. No bra when I would normally attempt a strapless. Tube tops. Things that are tight where I normally require them to be loose. Surely I will stumble upon the right combination of clothing that makes me feel like I’m ready to scrap, to flirt, and to thrive under the watchful eye of Big John and VH1's cameras, and when I do, watch out, world, here I fucking come.