I was recently telling my son about the outfit I wore for my kindergarten school photos, and how I loved it, and the silver caps on my front teeth. "I thought those were so cool."
My son replied, "So, what I'm hearing here is that you've never had any fashion sense." Nope. Never. None.
I've finally figured out how not to be completely inappropriately dressed, I think. Not inappropriate as in revealing - I'm not an exhibitionist - but just a deep, inborn inability to figure out what goes with what, what looks good, and why.
Someone once asked me if I owned so much black because I thought it was slenderizing. (I am nobody's idea of goth, and never have been, so that option is out.) I thought that was very funny. First, it's hard to "slenderize" someone of my bulk. Second, I don't think that anyone needs to be slender in order to look good.
Third, and most important, I just can't summon much interest in looking fashionable, or shock value unfashionable; really, in wondering too terribly much what anyone thinks. I try not to be offensive or otherwise sabotage any chance of functioning smoothly in everyday life, but that's it. I had a baby at 20 and another at 21. When you're responsible for keeping another human being alive and safe, nothing else seems very important at all. All I had room for in my head and my day were things that directly affected my children's health or safety. I couldn't possibly spend that time wondering if my shoes "went" with my pants. I barely summoned up interest in whether something was flattering or not; comfort is king.
That's where black comes in. You can't mess it up. Everything matches it - darks, brights, pastels, patterns, florals, winter wear, summer wear; black is universal. It also doesn't show messes very readily - something that is important when you have small children in your life.
I also needed a lot of black, including maternity clothes, to work backstage on the theater productions on which I spent a great deal of time.
It's just not possible to go wrong with black.
Then, I discovered that there is a downside to black clothes.
I tend to assume that people mean what they say and say what they mean, so I don't spend a lot of time looking for subtext. (I know. Stop laughing.) When I'd be in all black in the dead of a Nevada summer and someone would ask, "Aren't you hot?" I would assume that they actually wanted to know if I was comfortable, and that being assured that I was was enough.
We have relatives, though, who are sure that any direct question, and any direct answer, are rude. I had no experience with this kind of thinking, and still find it difficult to navigate a landscape of hints. I spend my time giving literal answers, and they spend their time wondering why I'm clueless.
Years ago, my little family of four was at an extended family picnic in July, and I was oblivious to the fact that I looked out of place. I hate changing my clothes, and try to avoid it unless I'm very dirty or having to wear something uncomfortable. Otherwise, I put on what I'll need to wear at night first thing in the morning, and wear it all day. This was especially true when my kids were very young, and a lot of what I did, including any theater, meant a 45 minute one way drive. I was not about to pack basically an overnight bag just to go into town shopping or visiting relatives, then change for the show if I was tech crew. (Costumes, obviously, are in a different category; you don't want to take a chance ruining or staining them.) So, at this picnic, I wore a black top, black pants, black socks and black lace up canvas shoes. In July, in Nevada. It made sense to me, my husband and my kids, and I didn't really think about anyone else.
Most of the other women were dressed one of two ways - denim shorts and expensive athletic shoes, or floaty floral dresses and sandals. I knew that I didn't look like that, but I honestly didn't think anything of it. Then, after an hour or two, my five year old niece approached.
"What, are you going to a funeral?" she demanded, hands on hips, looking me up and down. I could sense her mother being horrified, but I was totally charmed by this. If you want to know, ask.
"No, I'm working backstage on a play later. We have to be in all black so the audience doesn't notice us moving things on and off stage."
She looked slightly puzzled - the concept of "play" may not have made sense to her - but she said, "Oh. OK." She waltzed away, and I became aware of a ripple going out through the rest of the relatives, starting with the ones at the table next to me. There were exclamations of, "Oh! "OH." "Oh!" rippling across the yard. Apparently, the fact that I was "inappropriately" dressed had been the subject of much speculation, but they all considered it more polite to discuss and theorize amongst themselves than to ask me outright. There was a great deal of relief that "there's a reason."
I was left thinking, thank heaven for my niece. Who knows what bizarre theories were being floated? Come on, folks, just ask!
I still didn't fully comprehend that I may occasionally look out of place.
A few years later, I was head of stage crew for a musical. I loved the show; it's still one of my favorites. I frequently wore the button with the name and logo of the show, with the dates and theater information in small print.
I was 26; you know how 20-somethings are frequently fashionistas? Yeah - not me.
My oldest daughter, in kindergarten at the time, had a Girl Scout activity in town, an hour away from home. I had a show that night, so, of course, I was in head to toe black. I had also put on a string of small multicolored beads, since my husband was always encouraging me to accessorize in colors to spice up the unrelenting blackness. They were small enough that I could keep them on during the show without them being distracting. I also wore the publicity button for the show, "Assassins."
Yeah; you probably already see where this was going. I didn't.
I stood there in my sunglasses - it would be another few years before I had prescription lenses that darkened outdoors - my black clothes and shoes, and my big red button that had the crosshairs of a gun sight and the word "Assassins" in bold letters, waiting for my daughter to be done. The room was full of adorable little cherubs in Scout uniforms, including mine in a bright blue Daisy smock. The other mothers formed those groups that everyone else seems to form so effortlessly, and chatted. No one chatted with me, which was fine, but a few of them kept throwing me wary, sidelong glances. I had no idea what that was about, but little inclination to figure out why. Humans are a mystery.
Finally, a woman I knew from church left her little group and walked over to me, I assumed to say hello. Instead, she said, "Assassins, Sharon?" in a tone of outrage.
Whoops. Yeah. Not sounding very child friendly, is it? And here I am in my sniper clothes.
"It's a show. At the university. I'm head of stage crew." She continued to look at me uncomprehendingly. I felt compelled to keep talking. "It's about people who have killed, or tried to kill, presidents of the United States." Still no real response. I kept talking. "It's really funny. It's a musical."
Finally, a reaction: "A musical?"
"Yeah. It's great. You should come see it."
I was not successfully selling the concept.
"We have a show tonight. These are my stagehand clothes."
"Oh. I wondered."
She went back to her little group, where I saw her mouth moving, and the O formed by the mouth of the woman next to her, as she received the explanation.
Yeah; not selling any tickets here. Whoops. Unsuccessful attempt at publicizing my show.
When the event got over, and my little cherub ran up to hug me and started to chatter about all the things she'd done, I saw some of the other moms look even more amazed. Come on, ladies; would you have liked it better if I and my "Assassins" button were hanging around this event without my having a child there?
They probably still feel bad for my daughter and her tragic upbringing.
And I still wear a lot of black clothes. But not because they're slenderizing.
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