2007 was a year of despair. Anyone with whom I had a viable relationship sensed that I was “off,” while those who met me in 2007 likely thought…well, I don’t know what they thought, but I assume it was along the lines of moody, brooding, serious, not. fun. (Unfortunately, for community at large, I met a lot of new people that year.)
Towards late summer sullenness hit its apex when I discovered I was disheartened and hopeless, but by fall a rebound created a slight transformation. No longer was I villifying the despair. Resigned to the idea that this was how I felt, I began to feel less guilt for my emotions. This shift, however, was probably not perceptible to others. In part because I dressed like a zombie in mourning.
All I wanted to wear was black. Head to toe. Black pants, black dresses, black turtlenecks, black heels. If I was feeling risky I’d wear grey, but my primary preference remained black. Black belt. Black headband.
I guess it was a decision to adopt this particular monochromatic uniform, but I don’t think I rolled out of bed in the morning and said, “Hello, world! Today I will greet you in black.” In hindsight I’ll say this blackboard of fashion was a sign that I no longer mentally hid from my inner turmoil and was showing the world the state of my mind. However, I didn’t see the philosophy of it then. I saw it as simply following through with the desire to wear certain articles of clothing. They all just happened to black.
One morning, though, I realized I was choosing my fourth black outfit of the week and found myself thinking, “This is what they mean when they say fashion is expressive.” Not really knowing what I meant by that statement, I paused to consider wearing something grey, but then shrugged at the silliness of the suggestion and continued to dress in a black shroud. “Whatever, if I want to dress like I’m attending a funeral, I’m also going to wear black earrings.”
I mention this now because it is in such vast contrast to what I’m wearing today: a light blue skirt, a top that could only be called magenta and a scarf given to me by a girl friend from a Turkish bazaar which beholds a kaleidescope of colors. I look sprightly. And as others pause to assess my fashion impulses (because I know they do), I think I look the healthy reflection of my inner landscape.