New York Magazine asked its loyal readers a vital question– “What makes someone a New Yorker?” And as a loyalist myself, I felt obliged to read every single response. My personal favorite was, “New Yorkers will always wear black until they can find something darker.”
For those who are well-acquainted with my wardrobe, there are but two consistencies: black skirts and black boots. Despite Kate Spade’s delightful “Live Colorfully” campaign, I find myself consistently pulling the black garments from my closet first. And, perhaps, if I am in a hyper-caffeinated state, I add a pop of color.
Generally speaking, however, I resort to my black Longchamp bag when accessorizing. Yes, black bags complement black outfits. And I am in the philosophical state of binary oppositionial denial. In place of viewing the world as painted in strokes of black and white, I just see shades of black– the 21st Century gray, if anyone outside of New York asks.
Now my propensity for dark shades has never posed much of an issue. Though I have been subject to the standard biting commentary (“Oh, look, it’s the Elbow-Concealing Grim Reaper!”), I have succeeded in acquiring additional garments of the black variety without fear of verbal retaliation.
There is but one exception: England. Apparently the “live colorfully” campaign is more than just a means of selling $395 purses; it’s a way of life, or “modus operandi,” as one such Oxfordian phrased it. And in the midst of my last minute packing crusade yesterday, I realized how few colored garments I had placed in my suitcase.
So I did what any girl who had just downed two Starbucks ventis would do, I ran like the wind to my local Anthropologie, explained my predicament to my personal shopper, and a few too many dollars later walked out with garments in shades of red, green, and blue. Granted, the blue was of the navy variety, but I believe in taking baby steps.
The kicker, though, is the nail polish selection I have opted to sport. In place of my standard OPI Lincoln Park After Dark, which, in truth, is a moniker for black, I chose a most fitting color: “My Private Jet.” Given my red-eye excursion, it seemed the most logical selection– a brown with glittery undertones:
And with that, avid readers, I bid you adieu! When next we meet, I will be across the pond, interrogating a certain health minister about his wildly erratic sleeping patterns.