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Getting dressed, I reach for the grey skirt, black top. Wait. It's gonna to be hecka cold today (Or at least, the coldest it's been this season) and I'd rather layer. So I put on the grey shirt and then the black one, two tops overlapping at the wrists and waist and neck. And the grey skirt, black socks, my sneakers of course, black and grey and some reflective silver strips.

Alright, so I like black. And I like grey. And just for the record, I like maroon too.

Sweatshirt hoodie, for warmth: grey fleece. Jacket: grey scratchy wool. And a scarf, jauntily flung around the neck, to muffle my ears when I get outside. Arrayed thus, I glance at the mirror and laugh. That makes what, 5? 6? monochrome shades? Excepting the scarf, (which is a deep splash of red), everything I am wearing is either black or grey. Everything. Black bra, grey undies. Black socks.

Some days the mix is sufficient that I don't look like a black and white photograph. And okay, some days I end up looking matchy-matchy. Yeah, it could be a little cutesy, or bland, or whatever. But I like it. I do.

Call me weird, but I get the most perverse pleasure walking out of the house, knowing the every garment on my body is one of two colors, down to the shoelaces. I feel good all over, like a deep-down clean, spiffy, because I'm wearing the colors I like and I'm wearing them. Not like it takes much effort, (especially in the winter), 85% of my clothing is either black, grey, or maroon, but still: I am in black, I am in grey, I'm in my favorite clothes (black.grey.favorite.) and I smile.

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