From the subways of Tokyo to the airports of Athens, join our fashion and lifestyle columnist "No Style" in her quest to get some. Say "fashion victim no more," now, say it again. Ahhh. Doesn't that feel better? The antithesis to the traditional style column, this Ms. puts the capital S back in style...

Ms. No Style

I have never had any sense of style. Sure, people occasionally told me that the odd outfit looked good on me, or that my usually unruly locks fell just right, but those were not the kind of self-confidence boosters I could parlay into believing I had it together.

So my intentions for this column are are not to provide quick tips on how to seamlessly apply the smoking-hot new eye shadow color, or how to throw on that scarf for that finishing touch. Instead you could call this column the antithesis to all those style columns that have left me dumbfounded, and feeling slightly underachieved as a woman.

These glam columns are dismissed by some, and followed like scripture by others. The problem is that I have been unable to take a stand one way or the other. Written in secret beauty codes, the stylists preach to the converted, offering advice to those already in the know.

No this column is for the fashion backward, those left behind during the years when other women caught on to this stuff. Were they practicing mix and match in front of the mirror while I was out playing softball? Somehow I reached 30 style skilless, a fashion faux pas, exhibiting a visible lack of what I like to call self-maintenance.

I have come to believe that style comes from having an eye for it, and devoting a good deal of time and energy to maintaining the look. Talent for some, hard work for others. I fall in neither category. With only the slightest interest, there seems to be precious little time for the demands of good style: regular hair cuts and hours devoted to styling it, facials, manicures, hair removal, the replacement of stockings with holes, shopping for new clothing and accessories, the sewing back on of buttons, the ironing of shirts, the application of makeup, the shining of shoes. The list is endless.

Don't get me wrong. I admit to being a vain esthete in many ways. I approve of a good look and I appreciate the well kept, well decorated apartment of friends. However, a combination of inadequate skills, lack of time, and a myriad of many interests and distractions, have made me fall short of a Good Housekeeping seal of approval.

There are days when to the unscrupulous eye I almost have it together. But my new stockings hide unwaxed legs, my fine tailored suit is coming undone at the hem, maybe my shirt could have needed an extra stroke of the iron, and I probably should have attended to my nails last night instead of burying my nose in a book.

Some years ago, just starting out my career, I worked an all nighter in an effort to meet a deadline. The sun was just coming up when my co-worker and I decided to head home for a few hours sleep. His maestro hair was unusually sticking out and only matched in style by my curls jammed haphazardly into a pony tail. My clothes were wrinkled and partially wearing the pizza we had ordered last night.

I was exhausted. We made our way like zombies through the waves of people in the Tokyo subway. Then it happened. I had almost successfully reached a platform when I missed the last step. My bag went flying, I fell hard, cement breaking my fall. Legs all twisted, I lay there confused, looking at people's footwear, a lot of fancy pumps with little bows. My eyes looked up further to find shaved legs in sheer nylons, clinging to six size-four women who were six feet tall. Mortified, I looked up to find myself amidst a group of models snickering at me.

Well, maybe style isn't only about looks. It requires grace too. I have a long road ahead of me.

Contact Ms. No Style at 5a7@avivalasvegas.com. Make sure to put Ms. No Style in the subject line.

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