At the risk of incurring Miranda Priestley’s infamous Cerulean speech from “The Devil Wears Prada” when she verbally shreds her assistant for referring to fashion as “stuff”, I need to ask the question: Does fashion matter?

Here’s the thing: I am an unfashionable size 12. I live in a middle class suburb. I work in a male-dominated industry in a blue-collar town west of Boston. My social life consists of family movie night every Friday (microwave popcorn and a Disney DVD), SwimTots at the community pool every Saturday mornings, and dinner at my in-laws on Sundays. These are hardly the stats of a fashion insider.

I could easily live my life in two pair of khakis, a pair of jeans and a few sweaters from the Gap. Yet I soak up the features in fashion magazines. I like the articles that tell you how to go from office to evening--you know the ones that advise you to wear a suit to work and then change from the spectator pumps to strappy stilettos, from the Thomas Pink button-down to a sequined camisole, and from the Longchamp tote to an oversized satin clutch and voila, you’re ready to party.

I spend hundreds of dollars on fashion magazines every year. I have at least six fashion blogs bookmarked on my computer. I can tell a Prada from a Miu Miu, and spot a Tory Burch tunic a mile away. I lust after Manolo heels and Delman flats. I know that gray is the new black, Zac Posen is the new Marc Jacobs, and Agynes is the new Kate. My closet is packed with an eclectic mix of designer, vintage, leopard, and metallic. This season I covet cuffs and swing coats.

For the office, I mix high-end, classic items from Armani and Escada with basics and trendy pieces from Banana Republic and Club Monaco. I carry my laptop in a Prada bowling bag circa 2000. My coworkers favor Chicos for the high-end and Walmart for the low-end. At PTO meetings and at the playground, my neighbors sport Old Navy fleece or knock-off Burberry jackets with Merrel sneakers.

So why do I bother? I have a modest budget. I share one salary with a spouse, two kids, two dogs and a 1920s Colonial fixer upper. I could put my time and money to much better use.

Like many 40-something, middle class women, my life looks good on paper. And it is. I have a husband I not only love, but I actually like. I have two healthy children. I own a home. I have no reason, no right really, to complain.

But I’m so tired all the time. I go from home to work and back again with barely any time to think. What my husband, a stay at home Dad, offers in love and compassion, he lacks in housekeeping. Laundry is stacked on the dining room table. Toys cover the living room floor. Our bed hasn’t been made since we bought a new duvet cover in 1999. While my job pays well, it is just that, a job -- not a career. And exercise, something I do no more than five times a month, feels like a burden. I am fueled by two pots of coffee and a modest dose of Prozac every day yet I still can’t get out of my rut.

Many of my friends, under the pressures of careers and kids and aging parents, feel the same way. As a result, some of them overeat. Some drink. Some spend compulsively. I have experimented with all of those things. But my best coping strategy? I style.

When my children and husband have finally gone to bed, when I have finished answering emails from earlier in the day, I escape to our spare room where I keep my wardrobe. I rule over my closet with the exacting attention to detail that Anna Wintour and Glenda Bailey bring to the pages of their glossy magazines every month.

My closet is the only part of my life that feels organized. Alone in the night, I open every shoe box and reorganize them. Pumps go in the middle of the closet, ballets slippers to the right. Boots are organized by color and heel style. On Friday nights, I take the handbags I’ve carried all week and place them back in their felt sleeper bags. Then I move on to my jewelry. I have a fantastic mix of vintage and costume. I hang the necklaces, pair the earrings, stack the bangles. My kitchen counter may be covered with a days’ worth of dirty dishes but my accessory drawers are pristine.

Every Sunday night, I lay out outfits and create new combinations for the week ahead. I experiment with looks by changing shoes or belts. I take inventory of what’s in my closet and make lists of the pieces I need. Then I go to EBay and Bluefly, neimanmarcus.com and The Budget Fashionista to shop for deals.

I know it sounds frivolous, selfish even. But for me, it is salvation. My wardrobe allows me to exert control in a life that feels like it is controlling me. It lets me dress for the life I want to live, instead of the life I’m living. It helps me envision a future when I will be able to pursue my dreams. And it allows me to appreciate how blessed I am, because I know that is the case.

So to answer the question, does fashion matter? To me, it matters a lot.