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.