When I Let My Husband Pick My Outfits for a Week (The Results Were… Shocking)

Okay, so you know how some couples just have that effortless style thing going on? Like they somehow coordinate without trying, and they both look like they stepped out of a J.Crew catalog? Yeah, that’s definitely not me and Mike. Not even in the same universe.

Mike is what I’d generously call a “practical dresser” – and I mean that in the most loving way possible. The man has been wearing the same brand of khakis from Target for probably eight years now, and I’m pretty sure he’d wear them until they literally disintegrated if I didn’t occasionally hide the really worn-out pairs. His closet consists of polo shirts from his college days, a few button-downs he wears to church, and approximately seventeen identical navy sweaters that his mom keeps buying him every Christmas. When I say he gets dressed, I mean he puts on whatever’s clean and calls it a day.

Meanwhile, I’m over here planning outfits the night before (when I remember to), following fashion bloggers on Instagram, and having minor panic attacks when I can’t find the right cardigan to complete a look. I’ve got a whole Pinterest board called “Mom Style Inspiration” that’s basically just pictures of women who somehow manage to look put-together while chasing toddlers. We are, let’s just say, approaching fashion from completely different planets.

Which is why when my friend Sarah suggested I let Mike dress me for a week as content for my blog, my first thought was “absolutely not.” Like, this is the man who once asked me why I needed more than one pair of jeans. What would he possibly put me in? His old college t-shirts?

But then I thought about it more, and honestly, I was kind of curious. Mike has made the occasional comment about my outfits over the years – usually something like “that looks nice” when I’m wearing something I thought was completely unremarkable. Meanwhile, some of my most carefully planned looks get zero reaction from him. What exactly did he think looked good on me?

So I agreed, with a few ground rules. He had to pick from clothes I actually owned (no sending me to school pickup in his Vikings jersey, which I knew would be his first instinct). And I got veto power if he tried to put me in something that would genuinely embarrass me in front of the other moms. Other than that, I’d wear whatever he picked for seven whole days.

The night before we started, I watched Mike stand in front of my closet looking like someone had asked him to perform brain surgery. He kept pulling things out, looking confused, then putting them back. At one point he held up two different black sweaters and asked, “What’s the difference between these?” in the same tone you’d use to ask about quantum physics.

“They’re completely different,” I said. “That one’s cashmere, and that one’s cotton. Different necklines. Different fits.”

He stared at them for another thirty seconds, then shook his head. “They’re both black sweaters.”

After about twenty minutes of him muttering things like “Why do you have so many scarves?” and “What even is this?” (pointing to a perfectly normal wrap top), he finally laid out an outfit on our dresser chair.

His first choice was honestly… not terrible? My dark jeans – the good ones from Madewell that actually fit – a plain white t-shirt, and my denim jacket. For shoes, he picked my white Adidas sneakers.

“This is just… normal,” I said, trying not to sound too surprised.

“It looks comfortable but nice,” he said, looking proud of himself. “Like you could chase the kids but still look like a real person.”

I had to laugh because that’s literally my main fashion goal these days – looking like a real person who happens to have children, not like someone who’s given up entirely. When I put the outfit on, it was actually really cute. Classic, comfortable, totally appropriate for my actual life. I got compliments from two different moms at Emma’s preschool, and Jackson’s teacher said I looked “so put together.” Mike was insufferably pleased with himself when I texted him about it.

But I knew Day One was easy mode. Those were all pieces I wore regularly, just not necessarily together. The real test would come when he had to dig deeper into my closet.

Day Two, he came back to my dresser with more confidence, pulling out pieces I definitely wouldn’t have combined myself. He chose this midi skirt I’d bought for a work event years ago – back when I had work events to attend – in this pretty burgundy color. Then he paired it with a simple black sweater and my ankle boots. The boots weren’t the ones I usually wore with skirts – they were chunkier, more casual.

“Mike, that skirt is like… fancy,” I protested. “Those boots are for running errands.”

“So? It’s all your clothes,” he said. “The skirt’s pretty, the boots look comfortable. Why can’t you wear both?”

When I put it on, I had to admit he had a point. The contrast between the dressier skirt and casual boots was actually really cool – like something I might see on those street style blogs and think “I wish I was brave enough to try that.” It felt more interesting than my usual safe combinations, but still completely me.

That day I got stopped by another mom at Target who asked where I got my skirt. A mom! At Target! Asked me about fashion! I felt like I’d won some kind of suburban style lottery.

Over dinner that night, Mike seemed genuinely curious about how the outfit had gone over. “People liked it?”

“They really did,” I told him. “I think I’ve been playing it too safe with my usual combinations.”

“You overthink everything,” he said, which, fair enough. “You have all these rules about what’s ‘work clothes’ versus ‘weekend clothes’ versus whatever. I’m just picking things that look good together.”

He was right, and it was kind of annoying how right he was. I realized I’d created all these mental categories for my clothes – things were either “nice enough for school events” or “too casual for anything important” or “too fancy for everyday.” Mike, who didn’t have any of these arbitrary rules cluttering up his brain, was just looking at individual pieces and putting them together based on what looked good.

Days Three and Four continued his winning streak. He put me in my wide-leg pants – the ones I usually saved for “nice occasions” – with a simple striped t-shirt and sneakers. It was like elevated casual, comfortable but intentional. Then he chose my wrap dress (which I typically only wore in summer) with a cardigan and my leather jacket layered over it. I never would have thought to layer all three pieces, but it created this interesting texture mix that actually worked.

“How are you doing this?” I asked him after Day Four’s success.

He shrugged. “I just pick things I think look nice on you. You always look good in that wrap dress, and you’re always cold, so I added the sweater. The jacket looked cool with it.”

The simplicity of his approach was both impressive and slightly infuriating. While I’m over here consulting Pinterest boards and trying to remember what fashion bloggers say about proportions, he’s just thinking “this looks pretty, she’s always cold, add a jacket.” Maybe there was something to be said for that level of… I don’t want to say ignorance, but uncomplicated thinking?

Day Five was our first real disaster. Maybe his success had gone to his head, because Mike got ambitious and tried to put together what I can only describe as a pattern explosion. A floral skirt with a striped shirt and my polka-dot scarf. It was like he’d confused “mixing patterns” with “wearing every pattern I own simultaneously.”

“This is… a lot,” I said, looking at myself in the mirror. “Like, aggressively a lot.”

Even Mike winced. “Yeah, that’s not good. You look like a walking optical illusion.”

I had to exercise my veto power for the first time, and his second attempt was much more reasonable – solid black pants, a simple white blouse, and a colorful statement necklace. Safe but nice, and I appreciated that he’d learned from his mistake without getting defensive about it.

Day Six was the big test. We had dinner plans with some friends, including my old coworker Lisa who always looks amazing and somehow makes me feel underdressed even when I’ve tried really hard. If there was ever a time I needed to look like I had my act together, this was it.

Mike took this responsibility seriously, spending way longer than usual considering options. His final choice surprised me – my black dress (a safe pick I often defaulted to for dinner out) but with my jean jacket over it instead of the blazer I usually wore, and my statement earrings that I’d forgotten I owned.

“The jean jacket makes it more relaxed,” he explained. “And those earrings are pretty – why don’t you ever wear them?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I guess I always forget about them.”

“You have a lot of nice stuff you don’t wear,” he observed. “Like you’re saving it for some special occasion that never comes.”

It was uncomfortably accurate. I do have this habit of “saving” my favorite pieces – the good jewelry, the cashmere sweaters, the shoes I don’t want to scuff up. But then what’s the point of having them if they just sit in my closet?

The dinner outfit was perfect. Lisa immediately complimented my earrings, and I felt comfortable and confident all evening. The jean jacket made the dress feel less “trying too hard” and more effortlessly put together. Nobody suspected that these styling choices weren’t my own.

For our final day – Day Seven – Mike chose what felt like a summary of everything he’d learned about my style. My favorite jeans, a soft grey sweater I’d been “saving” for… I don’t even know what I was saving it for, honestly… and my most worn-in leather jacket. It was completely me, but elevated somehow.

“This just looks like my normal style,” I said.

“It is your style,” he replied. “These are all things you love. You just don’t always put them together, or you save them for reasons that don’t make sense.”

As our experiment ended, I found myself thinking about what I’d learned from letting my fashion-indifferent husband make my clothing decisions for a week.

First, I definitely overthink getting dressed. I have way too many rules in my head about what goes with what, what’s appropriate when, what should be saved for special occasions. Mike, approaching my closet without all that mental baggage, was able to see possibilities I’d been blind to.

Second, I need to stop saving my favorite pieces for some theoretical perfect moment. My nicest sweaters, my good jewelry, my special vintage finds – they should be part of my regular rotation, not museum pieces I’m too precious about to actually wear.

Third – and this was the biggest surprise – Mike had been paying way more attention to my style than I’d realized. He’d developed genuine opinions about what looked good on me, even if he’d never articulated them before. All those times I thought he wasn’t paying attention when I asked “How does this look?” he actually was absorbing more than either of us knew.

“What did you think of your week as my stylist?” I asked him that final evening.

“It was actually kind of fun,” he said. “I liked figuring out what would look good together. And honestly? You make it more complicated than it needs to be. You have great clothes – just wear them.”

Simple advice, but not wrong.

As for me, I came out of the week with a completely different approach to my closet. I started mixing pieces I’d never combined before, wearing my “special” items for ordinary days, and generally stressing less about putting together the “perfect” outfit.

I also gained a new appreciation for Mike, who proved he sees me more clearly than I’d given him credit for. He’ll never be the guy who gets excited about fashion weeks or understands why I need multiple pairs of black pants, but he notices more than I thought.

“Would you let me style you for a week?” I asked him as we were getting ready for bed. “Turnabout is fair play.”

He looked genuinely terrified. “Absolutely not. I’ve seen some of the stuff you buy and think looks ‘interesting.’ You’d have me in skinny jeans and those weird shoes with the pointed toes within twenty-four hours.”

“They’re called Chelsea boots and they’re very stylish!” I protested.

“They look like elf shoes,” he said firmly. “I’m sticking with my khakis and polos. Some things shouldn’t be messed with.”

I guess everyone has their limits. But maybe next time I can at least get him to try the khakis in a different color. Baby steps, right?