If you’re like me, you’ve never once been mistaken for an outdoorsy person—the kind of aberration who’d happily hike a hallowed national park over lazing on a chaise lounge at a resort; an untrustworthy rogue who’d take a ski trip and actually leave the lodge; a bonafide freak who’d consider feasting on freeze-dried food and shitting in the woods a vacation. In such case, you’re likely well-acquainted with the distinct humiliation foisted upon we, the marginalized, when others discover we honor the great outdoors a little differently.

It’s not that we don’t like nature. We, too, are moved by the sight of a sunset. So titillated are we by the notion of a nip in the air and the natural wonders of the world that we let out an involuntary sigh upon witnessing them. However, our definition of being “outdoorsy” is different. Quite simply, it’s serving a look™ whilst outside.

After many years spent masquerading as someone who would willingly sleep in a tent out of sheer fear I’d be perceived as the type of high-maintenance brat many young women are indoctrinated to believe is unattractive, I’m shedding some layers in lieu of cuter, more expensive ones. That’s right, I’ve outgrown giving a damn whether or not future friends and partners think I know what kindling is.

In the truest sense of the word, I am an outdoorsy person. I’m just an atypical one. For the record, I became a Girl Scout only after I saw Troop Beverly Hills, and let’s be clear: Every square inch of my vest was covered in patches by the time I quit at 12 years old. I’ve even slept in a cabin once! I have simply redefined what a nature-loving woman represents.

If you were curious as to what she’s all about, here’s what she’ll be wearing when forced to leave her home this autumn, demonstrated by 2022 fall ready-to-wear runway collections. Why be one with Mother Nature when you can just make her jealous?

Hear me out: If you think this pelt is a little much for a simple kayak excursion, you’d be correct. Am I going to wear it anyway? Obviously.

I have never been skiing because I have, historically, had better things to do, like cleaning the keyboard of my laptop. However, if given the opportunity this season, I would slide my stalks into this shearling cobalt number. Who cares if it’s cropped? My abdomen will never once be exposed to the elements, anyway.

The Burberry trench was made for boring people, to which I cannot relate. On the other hand, this trench, in all of its pierced glory, is for those of us who wish to convey that we aren’t just classic, but very, very tough. Obviously, I’m not going to wear this on a hike, but I can guarantee bears wouldn’t dare come for me if I did.

It’s giving elevated Edward Scissorhands, and yes, I’d don this bad boy for a haunted hayride or house. Not one middle-aged man covered in crimson corn syrup and wielding a chainsaw could touch me. In fact, I’d wager they’d be too terrified to try. In the immortal words of Megan Thee Stallion: “Every time I pop out, it gets scary for you hoes.”

Picture it: We’re gathered around a campfire, roasting marshmallows, taking pulls from a flask, and counting constellations. It’s the kind of night that requires a blanket or two, but only for you suckers because I’m downright toasty in this.

If I could afford this Miu Miu number, it would surely land me on PETA’s red-paint list. That’s OK because whatever gargantuan snake was skinned to make it would’ve probably eaten whatever animal was used for the collar, anyway. Basically, I’m expediting the food chain. You’re welcome.

This is not an overt reference to nature, but Louis Vuitton has somehow married a tenured professor with a Top Gun pilot. To quote Tom Cruise, this jacket can only be classified as “a kill.” My call name when it’s draped over my shoulders as I watch someone else park the RV I requested for optimal glamping? Sexy Bitch.

I mean, I’ll just come right out with it: How striking would this Schiaparelli shroud be surrounded by the Redwood forests? You see it, right?

Paul Revere never needed to warn anyone the redcoats were coming, because let’s be real, we could spot them from across the pond the second they clothed themselves in this iconic, universally flattering hue. Speaking of color! I’m sipping coffee, admiring the foliage in this while someone else packs the car for a weekend upstate.

Like Elle Woods pre-Joanna Pacitti “Watch Me Shine” montage, I’m packing this for a road trip to Harvard so I can bag me a dude who can keep me in pink fur for eternity. Or, at least until our divorce, when I inevitably take half.

Have you ever participated in something called a Turkey Trot? Me neither, despite the fact that I hail from the Midwest, my bloodline is riddled with colonizers, and celebrating a genocide by running just so you can feel less guilty about the consumption of extra calories is distinctive of my species. In some parallel universe wherein I was forced to be a spectator at the finish line, I’m slipping on this Jil Sander like a scarlet letter to atone for my ancestors.

Most jackets from Stella McCartney’s 2022 fall ready-to-wear are reminiscent of a Dickens character, with the exception of this one, which is undoubtedly more “Penny Lane goes to Yosemite.” It also summons to mind the universal white-people dog breed of my home state, Ohio: the dreaded Goldendoodle. When I tailgate outside of Ohio Stadium and perform the perfunctory O-H-I-O chant as a Christmas present to my dad, I’ll imagine I’m wearing this.

Technically, this isn’t a jacket, but because the crushing weight of Catholic guilt is omnipresent, and the sentiment is just so true, it makes the list. It’s the perfect uniform for my annual trip to a local country store for pumpkin spice donuts and apple cider. And, as if to embody human bumper sticker (the kind native to my hometown), I wouldn’t even mind taking this for a spin in the back of a truck.

I’m picking pumpkins in this, except by “I” I actually mean “one of my gentlemen callers is.” Touting around my own heavy, filthy gourds? As if!

Now, I know the sight of me in this plaid, pleated tent could make you pitch one of your own, but please refrain until I’m curled up at the lodge.