“Wear more greens, blues, and purples—and less black,” reads the note I’d written in a bout of self-improvement. A former color consultant once suggested that I would feel less depressed if I wore less black. She was right. My face lights up when I wear turquoise and bright, grass green sets off my hazel eyes and brown hair. And the bright, clear colors of summer do make me happy, whether they’re on my bed, the wall or my feet. So why did I just buy another little black dress?
It’s not like I needed one; I already own several already. There’s the Nicole Miller, a classic LBD with ruched sides that I bought for my 50th birthday. There’s the dress I bought in London at the Goth-Glam chain, All Saints, that has gold threads subtly woven into its textured cotton fabric and a strappy neckline. It’s closest cousin, a shorter, more form-fitting black cotton knit that I found on sale in Berkeley, also has an unusual neckline, intricately cut out to highlight my décolletage.
Perhaps that is the theme of these dresses, as even the most demure, long-sleeved, knee-length, mock turtleneck LBD in my closet has an envelope opening between collar bone and cleavage. (I admit to being a tiny bit proud that at 53 my décolletage is still smooth and fair, the direct result of having spent my youth indoors reading rather than outdoors sunbathing.)
And then there are the two most outrageous ones: a cotton knit bandage dress and a fluttery-sleeved number with a deep scoop neckline in the front and an even deeper dip in the back, only slightly obscured by two sashes that keep the dress from falling open. (Actually the most surprising thing about this garment that I even bought a backless dress that reveals the long, faded scar from my scoliosis surgery.)
But none of this explains why I dropped more cash than I care to admit for another short, sexy, sleevelss cotton knit LBD? Was it because none of the others had this precise feeling of beachy casual? With its ropy halterneck above a keyhole opening, flattering draping, and just above the knees length, this dress is both soft and sporty—which makes sense as the boutique where I found it was inside a gym.
Was I hoping to show off arms toned (at some indefinite point in the future) by lifting weights and legs strong from stationary biking while obscuring the belly that only surgery can flatten? Or was I reacting to the fact that it was a medium rather than a large, proof that my new diet of whole grains and veggies was paying off? Was I responding to the subtle pressure of being told that it was the last one in the shop? Or was it something about the way it recalled the draped tunics of ancient Greece and Rome, of the Amazons or Diana the Huntress? All I know is that when the saleswoman held the garment up, I fell for it from across the room.
Clothing announces us to the world, whether we like it or not, whether we are even aware of it or not. There was a period when all I bought were long gowns that were perfect for the Renaissance Faire but totally out of place with my suburban housewife lifestyle. And yet those velvety creations moved and reflected something of the priestess, the artist, the time-traveler, the romantic in me. Similarly, the LBDs that I have acquired, all of which are perfect for travel and none of which are appropriate for teaching, carry a message to others and for me. Perhaps because my job is so consuming, I am unconsciously choosing to assert a different image on my own time. When I look in the mirror at the woman in the modern little black dress, I see a woman who revels in her sauciness, choosing rocker chic over rocking chair, a late-bloomer who devotes her weekends to exploring San Francisco’s alt culture scene, dancing with her boyfriend to a techno-beat.
