There is one guarantee in this life.
If perchance, we are ever to meet in the flesh, my flesh will be robed in BLACK.
And don't you dare mention it or ask the sartorial question, WHY?
I came under attack for wearing my favourite colour or non-colour this past week.
TWICE
I should be used to this question since I have adorned myself in basic black for the past forty years.
But I am not.
I am the kind of woman who never asks another woman why she is wearing a floral patterned blouse with striped pants and a leopard headband.
So I am always shocked when my wardrobe is the topic of conversation.
Thank God and Diana Vreeland for coming to my immediate rescue.
Actually, I have to thank Bill Cunningham and "The New York Times" for understanding my obsession for simplicity in my wardrobe.
"The Urban Druids" is the title that Mr. Cunningham has bestowed upon us.
Black goes with everything and everywhere.
Black is for women who have other things going on in their lives that are far more important than standing in front of their closets matching endless pieces of material together only to find out in the end that their bag doesn't go with that razzle dazzle ensemble that they have just spent the last forty-five minutes fussing over.
This leads me to the "no-fuss" aspect of wearing black which is 99% of its appeal.
Black is for slobs.
Inevitably, during the day I will spill something on me.
And when I do spill that glass of red wine.
It will be my dirty little secret.
A secret that I only have to share with my dry cleaners.
Black makes a statement.
I can be an international woman of mystery or I can be a nun.
No, nuns gave up that habit a long time ago.
I could go on and on but I have laundry to contend with.
Actually, just one load of dark clothing.
All black.
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