As you know m’dears, I am a woman perpetually in black. I have a no-nonsense all year round uniform and I very rarely veer from the joy that is choosing another black top to go with my black trousers and pretty ballet shoes.One would so hate to get adventurous and risk looking… well I’m not sure what I would be risking, but let it be known here and now that wearing anything other than black is something I consider very risky indeed.
Yes. Clothes are a bothersome business, which is why, seventeen years ago I decided to opt out of the entire affair and embrace darkness. And lip gloss. And big earrings. Not in a Pat Butcher way. More in a bohemian, gypsy way, if bohemain gypsies wore black trousers and sported bottoms to rival Kim Kardashians.
So yes. I wear black and shop for accessories with a vengeance and occasionally get silly and buy something I regret and all this would be fine and dandy if my most authentic self didn’t keep bugging me for frothy lace and Spanish dresses. If my heart didn’t yearn for beige (though let it be known that I look a SHOW in beige) and swishy skirts and tea dresses and mustard jumpers. I love mustard, me. And if my soul would not really prefer to be hopping about in a palette of brown, mustard, aubergine, red and olive green.
How absolutely desperate to be so very divorced from oneself! How devastating to acknowledge and ignore the battle between body and soul on a daily basis! How outrageous to throw all one’s efforts into creating and maintaining a home abundant in froth while prowling around in a stern curators uniform of black!
One simply does not know what to do with oneself beyond embarking upon a course of liposuction or throwing caution to the wind and deciding not to wait until I am an old lady to wear purple.
I have long flicked past the fashion pages of the many magazines I buy, and indulged my aesthetic self with much concentration on creating smoky eyes and pouty lips so other eyes did not need to wander past my neck, but the heart wants what it wants and it can be a persistent bugger when it does. So I find myself pinning beautiful clothes to my Pinterest boards. Curating pretty dresses on my Etsy boards and frequently returning to them to swoon just a little bit. The way others cluck over picture of babies in plant pots and puppies in a muddle. The way most women have always allowed themselves to feel about clothes.
I turn 42 tomorrow. Though this is a fact that shocks me all by itself, what shocks me more is how fast time marches on and how miserable it is to not be living as my most authentic, bohemian self. I do wish there was someone who could help me get out of my own way. I seem quite incapable, yet do not want to waste another year as the woman in black…
And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight in a bud, was greater than the risk it took to blossom…Anais Nin.
My frothy, lacy, Muse will be thrilled.