We think of red, white, and blue when celebrating 250 years of our nation’s history. That is noble and patriotic. Unfortunately this year I am not in a celebratory mood. A combination of personal angst because of family health issues, and unpatriotic angst due to the chaos our country currently experiences, my celebration meter hovers over low numbers.
But I do think of colors.
When I consider colors, I think of clothes. I am not sure why. Maybe I am shallow. The first thing that comes to mind when a color is mentioned is my outer shell, my skin, covered with clothes most of the time. Sometimes sweats, sometimes jeans or shorts and a T-shirt, and In winter, a comfy oversized sweater or sweatshirt. I favor solid, bold primary colors, my closet full of blues and greens, a few reds and whites, and of course gray and black, boring standards.
My wardrobe when employed consisted mainly of black pants with a variety of tops – a sweater, blouse, blazer, vest. Sometimes I opted for a long skirt, worn with boots so I did not have to wear stockings. No exposed legs for me (at least not in a professional setting); my legs have not been bare-worthy since my 20s.
Although I wore business casual each working day, comfort became a priority as I moved from my youthful 20s and 30s into a not-quite-older woman in her 40s, then passed a milestone into my 50s. I still felt healthy and definitely not matronly. My job required a conservative look, but not formal business attire, which would have required two of the worst women’s garments popular in the 20th century – the business suit, and stockings –no-no’s in my mind.
Some women look smart and sophisticated in a chic business suit, stockings, and heels. Not me. I never felt at ease or sophisticated in the garments. One acts like a lady in lady-like outfits. I was never a lady-type lady, all prim and proper. My hair was one give-away. My mane, shoulder length or longer since my teen years, never stayed in place. Today my longish hair marks me as a has-been, an oldie, a bit unconventional, with a slight side of conservatism thrown in.
When I retired, I retired much of my work wardrobe.
Red and navy blue were favorite colors in my work wardrobe. I don’t believe black made the list, but I was younger, slimmer, and less wrinkled back then.
I wear a lot of black nowadays.
I feel comfortable and safe in black, and forget what I am wearing or how I look. I feel as self-confident as this normally self-conscious introvert can be. I own few skin-tight garments, so black slacks, T-shirts, and sweaters drape around my body. Body rolls remain well-hidden.
A black outfit affects my mood and behavior. I feel mature, confident, and unafraid to speak my mind, unconcerned about what others think of me. It is a form of freedom to simply be myself.
Occasionally I don a pair of white slacks or a white button-down shirt. I like white, but white represents my vulnerability. I am self-conscious wearing white. Bumps and flab and rolls show. Stains stand out when I get them, which happens too often when wearing white. I worry about how I look, how my clothes look, what people think about me.
The me underneath my white outfit is self-conscious, tentative, not as adventurous as the red, blue, or black me. White reminds me of puberty-era me, walking head down through hallways and keeping my head low in class so I wouldn’t be called on. I did not want everyone staring at me while I spoke.
I love red clothes, although I do not own many red garments. Red makes me want to look and feel sophisticated, sexy, curvy in a good way. Which I am not now, never was, and never will be.
But I can dream.
Red means exposure. Women in red stand out, whether alone, in a group, or in a photograph. Red exerts energy that makes me want to do something. Red is vibrant, exciting, energizing.
Color me red, black, navy blue, with white highlights (maybe a scarf?).
Picture me standing slightly sideways, hands of hips, head thrown back (hides drooping neck) as I stare at the camera, dressed in red, with a blue and white scarf loosely draped around my neck, and black boots. I laugh as a gust of wind blows my hair over my face, the carefree inner kid momentarily in charge, while her older self silently smiles and looks on.
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