50 Shades Of Black: Confessions Of A Non-Fashionista & My Obsession With Black Garb

The gall that I have a fashion category on my blog is hysterical.   I am not a fashionista. I can’t figure out when I gave up. Or, perhaps, I never started.

My faded, stained and stretched out yoga pants are a disaster.   And, not from perfecting the ”downward dog” pose.  I’ve never stepped inside a yoga class.  Not once!!  I wear them to grocery shop and pump gas.

While glamorous, A-list celebrities go gaga over the hottest styles, at New York Fashion Week, I roll my eyes and suck my teeth.  I am not impressed by who’s wearing what!  Those models look angry as they work the runway?  They’re probably starving.

The first and last time I flipped through a Vogue magazine was twenty years ago, in my dentist’s office awaiting a root canal.  Too many glossy pages crammed with couture fashions, flawless faces, contoured cheeks and perfect teeth.

I don’t relate to these people!!!

My “beauty regimen,” is simple. I still use Ponds Cold Cream to take off stubborn mascara and makeup. For you millennials, scratching your heads, it’s a facial cleanser that looks like Cool Whip in a jar.

The thought of shelling out big bucks for a moisturizer, at a department store, is ridiculous. I can happily find what I need at Walgreens, while picking up a bag of Hershey’s Kisses.

I’m not a big fan of clothes

For me, it’s simply a means to an end to avoid getting arrested for indecent exposure. I’d rather shop for tooth floss than deal with wicked, fluorescent lighting and distorted mirrors in dressing rooms.  As a RN, I wear scrubs. Professional pajamas. No daily big decisions. I buy clothes when pushed to the wall.

Last summer, I needed a fancy dress for a wedding. After my panic attack subsided, I shuffled off to Lord & Taylor’s, right around the corner from my house.

I was confronted by endless racks of vibrant hues, romantic laces and floral prints.  Finding a sales clerk to help me through this peril was exhausting.  It was virtually impossible to find signs of human life without working up a sweat.

I felt like I was blinded by neon lights, standing in the middle of Times Square, looking everywhere and nowhere at the same time— screaming at the top of my lungs inside my head.

Blacklisted in college

But, I stayed true to myself.  I purchased, yet, another black dress, to cohabitate with all the other black slacks, black shirts and black sweaters in my closet. A sad little place that looks like it was struck by a total solar eclipse—except for a purple cocktail dress and a tangerine summer top.

This obsession with black started eons ago, as a college student. It was cool, unpretentious and easy.  Wearing black turtlenecks and blue jeans was a religion. All these decades later, I never left the church.

It’s weird, though, because I love cheerful colors. My laundry room is sunny yellow. But, what is strapped on my back is pretty much devoid of pigmentation.  And, if you are wondering? I am not clinically depressed.  I am upbeat most of the time.

What’s the point of it all?

My sister, Karla, and I share this love affair. She is a bank executive and dresses up for work. Her outfits are classy, elegant and tailored.  It allows her to “blend into the background.”  Sometimes, she takes a walk on the wild side and mixes black with white.  It is a sartorial safety net.

As for me,  I wear black based on my weight, mood and life situations. When I feel fat, I’ve convinced myself that black makes me look thinner. We all know better, right? It’s a delusional shield. I accessorize with a silver cuffed bracelet, big earrings and a pop of lip color.

Black, was also my go-to color during my divorce in 1998. I looked like I was ready for the monastery or a cult.  Remarried, since 2015, I am in a joyful place in my life, but, black still holds a special place in my heart.

If you are a disciple, like my sister and me, be who you are, unapologetically. We are individuals, not swayed by the season’s trendy shades.

Let’s face it. Black is chic, sassy, versatile and timeless.   Oh, if you ever meet my sister, please don’t tell her that black isn’t really a color. I don’t want to burst her bubble.