I can't remember when I first started wearing black. Nor can I remember when black became the default colour in my wardrobe. (Is black even a colour?)
All I know is that when I open my closet, black springs depressingly eternal. Black pants, I've got a few. A few too many to mention: straight-legged, jeans, pin striped, stretch, linen, cropped, you name it. Black cashmere sweaters? At last count, four. No, five. Uh, six. Black jackets, black hoodies, black T-shirts, black bathing suits. Black shawls, black coats. And, of course, black shoes.
It used to reassure me that I had so much black - black is, after all, sophisticated, not to mention slimming. Black is also business-like, so wearing black is a daily fashion no-brainer. You get up, you pull out the black things that are clean and you can go anywhere. Even if you're in head-to-toe black, no one asks you who died because so many other people are also wearing black.
But lately, wearing black, I feel as if I've died. I think my soul is finally rebelling: It's spring, the birds are singing, the world is turning green, and I'm longing for colour. Not just the gesture of wearing a bright tee or scarf or carrying an orange purse, but, you know, making a full body colour statement.
I decided that this was the season to try to break the hold black has over me.
First, I bought InStyle magazine's Color Issue, featuring Gwen Stefani on the cover in an electric blue dress, designers urging me to "commit to a print," and ads that seemed aimed directly at me, such as the one featuring an orange ruffled jacket promising a "pop of color that transforms your look."
Although there was also Ellen DeGeneres, sleek in top-to-bottom black selling "simply ageless" makeup. Boycotting black is not as psychologically easy as you think.
I went shopping and so used am I to gravitating toward black that I wished there was a siren or a stern voice over the loudspeaker: "Step away from the black!"
My first attempt to throw off my dark shackles was a crisp white pleated shirt. (Is white a colour? Well, it's the opposite of black.) But when I got it home, it didn't look as good on me as the very same shirt did in black. "How could you go wrong with a perfect white shirt?" a friend asked. I don't know, but I knew I wasn't going to wear it.
"Do you want the black one instead? It looked great on you," the saleswoman asked me when I brought it back. Yes, I said. But then I surprised myself. "I mean, no!" I practically shouted. "No, I don't."
Then I saw something very, very bright. It was a hyacinth purple shawl/sweater thingy. With a fringe. When I tried it on, something happened to me: I felt ridiculous. And happy. Ridiculous because I'm not quite tall enough to carry off a fringe, but happy because the colour was just so luscious.
At home, my son kindly suggested it had a "middle-aged crazy" feel to it that I might regret.
Unsure, I took it, still in its shopping bag, to a coffee date to show some friends, and a funny thing happened. A woman from across the room got up from her table and came toward me: "Excuse me, where did you get that?" she asked. "I love it!" Briefly, I considered trying to sell it to her.
But I realized I didn't want to. So I kept it. And I never fail to feel good when I'm wearing it. (After all, I still get to wear black pants and a black tank top underneath.)
The other night in a restaurant, a table full of women I didn't know called me over to tell me they liked it. This thing is a hit! "A pop of colour that transforms my look!"
Feeling very proud of myself, I recently leafed again through InStyle and noticed something I had missed: "Avoid four trends this spring." First among them ? "Boho fringe - it gets tired real fast."
What do they know? It's my colour breakthrough and I'm sticking with it. Besides, maybe I can trim the fringe.