I have decided that it is time to buy my ass some motherfecking clothes. I am honest enough with myself to know that I am not embarking on some great odyssey to make my wardrobe anew — today’s little jaunt is more than likely to yield nothing but a few more pairs of black pants, a couple more black hoodies, and maybe a couple of v-neck t-shirts. Probably black.
I will, of course, be surrounded by racks and racks of clothes whose colors shout spring! dammit! but I do not like pastels! dammit! so I will continue to buy black no matter what the calendar says.
I was at a thing yesterday morning — a great enormous awards ceremony for local worthy folks, and what with half the room wearing red, to signify their undying allegiance to Team Red Cross, and the other half wearing green to signify their intention to get blistering drunk later in the day, I was just about the only person there who didn’t resemble a walking talking christmas decoration.
What is it with people wearing holiday-themed colors and costumes? The ladies who wear cardigans with embroidered turkeys in November, or pumpkin earrings in October? Or even occupation-themed clothing, like that lady I saw last week wearing a teacher-themed sweater, with some ABCs and an apple and a paint brush and shit on it. What the hell?
I’ve always theorized that most of the people who wear such themed garb are in fact teachers, who are mired in a work life of theme groupings, block scheduling, and yearly ritual that go beyond even my requirements for annual cyclic ritual.
I realize that we all wear uniforms of one sort or another, that we have a deep-seated need to advertise our social class, sexual availability, and political leanings in our dress. To a certain extent we are supposed to become more subtle about it as we grow older, but are the ladies who lunch in Coldwater-Creek-sanctioned ensembles really being any less subtle than the swarms of goth teens who still roam the countryside in their home dye jobs, over-wide trousers, and black eyeliner?
I tend toward the all black ensemble because first of all it is easy to match. Not all shades of black match, but many do. Also, I honestly feel like I lose a little dignity with each layer of a brighter shade I put on. A lovely deep crimson v-neck t-shirt under a black hoodie and over some flowy black pants is just about the right amount of color. Any more than that I feel like I am in An Outfit. I Hate Outfits.
The unremitting blackness of my wardrobe doesn’t so much announce my dedication to the downtrodden man as it does my abhorrence for doing laundry. I don’t have laundry machines in my house, sadly, and laundromats can blow me. And what they say about black shirts, they never get dirty, the longer you wear them, the blacker they get, is true. You just have to brush the cat hairs off once in a while.
Now that I have started my day off by likening myself unto Johnny Cash, though, I am going to have to fight extra hard not to buy those black cowboy boots I’ve got my eye on. I have to hold off on that particular purchase because my darling nita is about to send me a whole bunch of shoes and boots that will no doubt jolt my current wardrobe out of its funereal funk, as I gather she favors sparkly tiaras and gold lame flats. This is going to rule.