I wear an awful lot of black clothing. It’s sort of an L.A. thing, but it’s been my thing, my whole life. I wear so much black clothing that my knight in shining armor (who wears many colors, not chainmail) often asks me, “What are we mourning?”
“Every woman needs a little black dress.” When I’d read that as a young woman, the first big purchase I made right out of high school, clothing-wise, was a black dress. I felt like I’d done a grown-up, responsible thing. Shortly after that, I saw a blurb in a magazine that told me to “Wear black pants to look 10 lbs. thinner!” Working at a television production desk job for a few years had made me a bit broader in the beam (according to constructive criticism expressed by a relative) so, I ran out and bought five pairs of slacks, pants, trousers, jeans and/or britches. Of course, I also had to purchase shoes to go with – and I found black boots, black loafers, black mules, black slides, black pumps and through some weird twist of fate (it was the 80’s, so this was odd)… I found black flip flops.
To be honest, my fascination with black clothing started with a cherished black turtleneck given to me by a fashionable aunt. That turtleneck made me feel very bohemian and artistic. I started my high school years in a farming community but ended them at a high school of performing arts in Hollywood. I wasn’t allowed to wear that black turtleneck at school, but the minute I got home, the required skirt and blouse were replaced by that shirt and jeans. At home, I could embrace my inner decades-too-late beatnik. [I was so out of step with the 1970’s.] Later on, I came across the image of Marilyn Monroe wearing a black turtleneck and immediately felt intelligent and erudite, which is what I believe Miss Monroe was trying to achieve, too.
In my 20’s black appealed to my witchy, gothic “You don’t know the depths of my soul” side. When we’d go out to clubs or for cocktails, all of my girlfriends took to wearing black and we took to calling ourselves The Death Squad. Woe to any man and his bachelorhood life once we arrived through the doors of the Red Onion in Marina Del Rey!
Not until my 30’s and the birth of my children did I see the need to lighten up. Desperately, I tried to embrace color – with disastrous results. Color didn’t make me cheerful or bright, to make up for sleepless nights and meals consisting of leftover corndogs and mac and cheese that added to post partum pudge. Color called attention to me and made me self-conscious. I also felt terribly out of touch, since I couldn’t keep up with what color I was supposed to be wearing (according to the other mommies). One season hot pink was “in” and another was electric blue. It was too much effort to keep track of that and my kids school trends of Crazy Hair Day, Backwards Day and whatnot. Honestly, I had better things to do with my time and brain power than to read fashion magazines and trendsetting mommy bloggers (which was just starting to become a thing at the time).
In the 1990’s there was a window of time that neutral tones were all the rage and I worked really hard to wrap my head around becoming some kind of Earth Mother with every possible new shade of beige. Unfortunately, more often than not, I ended up looking like psychedelic oatmeal.
Getting older, I kept waiting for the spaceage promise that was made to me in my childhood (by every television show, comic book and magazine) that we were all supposed to wear metallic jumpsuits once we were jetting through the cosmos as a civilized society. As a kid, I’d see the images of people going about their business wrapped in tinfoil and I’d get chills up and down my cotton clad spine. As an adult I feel the same way. Are you kidding me?! One stop shopping, no fuss/no muss dressing. And those monochromatic slimming lines? To boot, they were probably wash and wear or even better: DISPOSABLE! Seriously, this individuality is overrated, when we could be recycling our clothes, too.
Alas, the future shows no signs of enslaving us in a one for all mentality. Too bad. We could use more of that in matters of the heart and politics, too.
My daughter pointed out that fashion was a thing that improved with age. Around the age of 13 she came up to me and said, “I really like old people.” When I asked why that was, she replied, “Well, you don’t care what other people think of you.” At the time, I was peeking over the bedsheets at middle-age and realized she was right. At that point I had become much less obsessive about my wardrobe.
Now, at the over half-century mark I wear what feels good. I’ve made peace with the fact that ivory, true red, purple and blues look best near my face. I have a healthy collection of shoes that include other colors found in nature and my underpinnings drawer resembles a fabric fruit salad with every color of the rainbow in there.
As for the inky black staples in my closet, they’re never going away. My fanny still favors (and looks best, in my own opinion – not the opinions of others, which I do not care to hear) the slacks, pants, trousers, jeans and/or britches and the LBD still rules at social functions and makes me feel like a million dollars (despite what my bank account thinks) And if one were to pop by for tea most days, you would find me at my keyboard still wearing a black turtleneck, regardless of the season or current trends. Or what anybody else thinks. I’m not mourning anything. Just being me. Today, I’ll celebrate that — by wearing black. 😉
xo – t.
“Clothes mean nothing until someone lives in them.” – Marc Jacobs
“Buy less, choose well.” – Vivienne Westwood
“Clothes aren’t going to change the world. The women who wear them will.” – Anne Klein