Black Leggings Blooming
It’s Earth Day, which gets a lot of action in our town, big festival, day-long outdoor concert, various healthy-ish food trucks, lots of fun. We aren’t going to the Earth Day festival though. We are going to Malibu. The ‘bu. I’ve got shiny grey painted toenails, a new sunhat, my blingy-yet-earthy crystal necklace, and I’m ready for a good time. If we were going to the Earth Day festival I’d probably wear a big black sundress and flip-flops, and my old hat. To Malibu I’ll wear a small black sundress and fancier flip-flops, and the new hat. It’s totally different.
And we’ve got a benefit coming up next week that is “cocktail attire,” which I told my friend who’s coming with means brushed hair, not sequins, in this part of the world. But what do I know? So little.
I used to love dressing up, costuming for real life. Business suits, party dresses, funky hairstyles, make-up, capes, sequins, “All the world’s a stage,” kind of attitude. I loved the book, “The Language of Clothes,” by Alison Lurie, and wrote essays about the history of clothing and stuff like that.
And then lately, like the last few years, I’ve been pretty committed to the black leggings, black tank, black long sleeve, black zip-up uniform, plus the big black sundress for when it’s hot. It’s comfy, and it’s functional for my current lifestyle of hike, coffee, write, play with the kiddo, maintain the nest.
But it’s not the wardrobe of a leading lady in the show of my life. It’s a stage-hand, don’t look at me, kind of look. Black leggings are the chinos of the stay-at-home mom set. They’re a neutral. They say, if anything, I am not naked. Perhaps I’m ready to say more than that with my clothes. It’s Springtime and maybe I’m starting to bloom.