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| A year's worth of colourful clothes |
In February of last year, I opened my closet on a snowy, overcast day, and tried to reach for something, anything, with a bit of spark in it. I was feeling oppressed by the endless black and white of winter, and I craved literally any colour at all. What I had was black leggings, navy blue dresses, gray sweatshirts, black tank tops, slate-gray pants, gray long sleeves, muted green jeggings, black tunics, and a lone pair of red pants best suited for shoulder season. When I looked out the kitchen window, all I saw was a colourless sky and the gray roofline of my neighbour's bungalow. I slept in a gray bed. I had a dead Boston fern in my front room. My husband's clothes run to the gothic: black, white, gray, and red. The only colour in our house came from our son, whose room was a kaleidoscope of bright toys, colourful books, imported fabrics, and a Roy G. Biv's worth of clothing options.
In 2020, I made two resolutions: I would stop supporting Amazon (I've had enough of Jeff Bezos,
thanks), and I would wear more colour. The first was because I could no
longer stomach even the occasional purchase from a company whose
founder I had come to see as a predatory threat to a thriving business
ecosystem that included any small or medium-sized options; the second
was because I had grown tired of my colourless wardrobe, and I wanted to
see who I would become with colour in my life.
On that day in February, I went to a boutique I don't usually frequent. I went into the dressing room with two shirts—one raspberry-coloured, the other a burgundy-and-neon orange Nordic fever dream—and bought them the same way I had first purchased alcohol: quickly, slightly furtively, and with a half-sense that someone would stop me at the door and say, "Ma'am, those aren't for you." I wore those shirts constantly through the balance of that winter, reaching for them because I knew that their warm tones would lift my spirits. It was low-hanging fruit, because my spirits were pretty grim at that point, but every time I put them on, I was reminded of the day I bought them, and the tonic I was sure they'd be to my soul.
We associate colourful clothes with children, and blacks and grays with serious grown-up life. Suits are typically black, gray, or navy (RuPaul notwithstanding); we go to job interviews in muted tones; the black legging and messy bun has become the women's unofficial weekend uniform; wedding dresses and funeral clothes are white and black; all-black is slimming, which we're told we need; dark and muted clothes allow us to blend in, which we're told we should. Not only that, but patterns, fabrics and colours come and go in trend cycles that have accelerated to the point of nonsense, and fast fashion steals from the haute houses and offers dozens of juxtaposed trends that are influence-able one week and passe the next. Fashion has become a dizzying place. It's simpler to just buy some really good black leggings and call it a day.
I've personally long avoided colour because I didn't want to be stand out. It's a cliche, I know, but I really believed that I was more appealing as a person if I could shrink myself down: big personality, big hair, big body, big opinions? At least I'm in a streamlined black outfit! I've been a dozen different shapes and sizes since I hit puberty, and hiding it in dark clothes just seems safer. It's a no-brainer to coordinate, and seen as elegant, professional, urban and chic. I've long admired women who have a signature colour—friends who wore mustard yellow or neon pink without blinking—but it wasn't for me, right?
This year's project wasn't a wardrobe revamp. I went through and pulled out clothes I truly didn't wear—stuff I had kept because it was "once I lose this weight" or "but that person I care about gave me this" or "I used to wear this all the time, and I might again." All that went into the donation bin. I started with what I had: muted blues, dark greens, and those two pink shirts. I set a goal to wear something with colour every day, even if it was just a pair of socks.
I had a breakthrough when I bought a pair of dusty coral pants from Target in February on a family trip, and another when Marimekko and Uniqlo put out a capsule collection full of bright vegetable prints. When I thrifted or went to clothing swaps (online, since, you know, 2020), I tried to skip over the black clothes I'd normally plunder, and ask myself: what about tomato red? Or mint green? Could I try a rose gold, or navy stripe? I found myself buying and wearing unexpected hues: I went for pink over and over, ranging from nearly flesh-toned to electric cantaloupe. I loved chambray denim. I knit a bra (yeah, a bra) that went from green to yellow to orange, and wore it for a week straight. I gave myself permission to buy seersucker pants, even at a size fourteen, because why not? Fat people have summer houses too! I bought yarn to knit myself a copper-coloured sweater. I trusted my instincts, putting the purple boots with the navy pants with the burgundy vest. I made myself a neon-yellow hat and wore it constantly.
It may not be a surprise to learn that this project, as a 2020 venture, was fun as hell. Recasting myself as a person who wears a lot of pink wasn't just an aesthetic shift. I'd long created little personae to go with various outfits: this one inspired by post-apocalypse farmers, that one by 1970s camp counselors, another by gallery owners. Since having a child, I put that on hold, and just tried to find stuff that hid the flaws. But when the whole goal was just "find colour and wear it," I let those stories drift away. I stopped trying to be someone else, even if that someone was aspirational, interesting, or fictional. Reflecting on this, nearly a year later, I can see that giving myself permission to wear things that made me feel a certain way, rather than look a certain way, or tell certain story, was something I really relished. There are still holes in my wardrobe, as well: I'm on the constant search for a pretty dress that feels right, and for pants that fit, and sweaters and sweatshirts. But as the owner of three pairs of pink pants, I'm confident I can find some garments that work.
What a gratifying project, to seek joy and then find it. I'm ready to be seen: I'm done apologizing for the size of my body or the space I take up. I crave adornment and pretty colours, like a flower or a sunset. Does that sound childish? I'm not sure I care any more. I love fashion and clothes, and I always will: I adore their ability to reveal people in a glance. By only wearing black and gray and navy, I had been telling the same story over and over, relying on an old vision for, frankly, an old version of who I am. This pink makes me feel happy. It really suits me.
