Taking a quick scan of my closet, I see what others would conclude: My favorite color is black. I do own bright- and multi-colored tops, and in the summer, I sometimes wear white or tan capris (more on capris in another post). But black takes up the overwhelming majority of my half of the space. I’ve decided, therefore, that when I shop, I cannot even consider buying any more black—for a while.
I enter a store with good intentions. Now that it’s almost winter, the jewel tones I also like are plentiful. But I still find myself perusing the racks and pulling out black sweaters, shirts, pants, and skirts to take a closer look. Then I internally scold myself. The conversation in my head goes something like this:
Practical Me: You already have three black cardigans.
Blackaholic Me: But this one has ruffles on the cuffs. Ruffles are so in now.
PM: Who’s going to look that closely at the cuffs? You’ll just be wearing another black cardigan.
BM: But the texture of this one is so smooth. And it has long sleeves. Two of our older sweaters have three-quarter sleeves—too much exposure for winter.
This goes on for a second or two more, and then I hang the item back on the rack.
Today I went shopping, again, and wandered into—surprise!—Chico’s. Here’s a rhetorical question: Does a mostly black top that has red and white accents count against me? I thought it didn’t, and I could not resist buying it. It fits me well, I have many things to wear it with, and it was on sale. But it also looks vaguely like a number of other black-with-other-colors Chico’s tops I already have.
So it’s fair to say I haven’t been cured of my black clothing addiction. I know of one can't miss cure, but I’m not ready to go for it: I'll adopt a shaggy dog or long-haired cat. Then I’m sure I’ll never wear black again. Or navy. Or charcoal…