Look, I’m not here to contradict my counterpart, but man! Amelia is stupid!
This morning she told you guys to dress like a bowl of Lucky Charms! That’s like basically telling you to masquerade yourself as the precise dividing cells that become malignant masses which can eventually kill you. Think about this for a second. The Charms in all that which is not Lucky are highly processed marshmallow bits that are not probably but definitely abusing your digestive system — and illusively at that.
So picture this: there you are, munching on your artificially colored clovers watching Saturday morning cartoons, thinking, “Man! This is what makes life worth living!” But then, bam! Diet-related maladies run amuck in your intestines and there’s really not much you can do it about it. As a micromanager, I find that one of my biggest fears is to have to forfeit control over the internal state of my body and that which does or does not make me healthy. So in light of preserving your control and well-being, let’s scale back and reconsider the stereotype that Ms. Diamond has submitted to forgo about the New Yorker and all that is black.
Make no mistake, though. I will be the first to tell you that black is arguably the most boring chroma on the color scale. Any single individual who has ever so much as exchanged a breath tethered to shopping with me will confirm that I have expressed, on a generous number of occasions, that I “don’t do black.” And while I want to continue to believe that it’s true — just in the name of personal consistency — guess what? I am “doing” black harder than Jay Z does Brooklyn.
Furthermore, too, I’ve been thinking about how much easier it is to get dressed — and not just dressed but dressed with panache — during winter months. This runs counter to my having historically sympathized with preferring to dress for warmer weather. I have previously argued that because in the summer there are fewer layers and therefore a more streamlined necessity to stand-out, it’s easier to get dressed. But as I slip my legs into the same pair of black rag & bone jeans day in and out, then pull an iteration of a grey, navy or black crew neck cashmere sweater over my head, I realize that in spite of what is indubitably boring, I’m not bored at all.
Plus I save like fifteen minutes of my mornings which brings up another interesting point: when discussing getting dressed, where there is no thought, there is no time-sensitive foul. But why the change of heart to begin with?
I could argue that in the same way I personally exploited prints two years ago and therefore haven’t been able to look at one (give or take a Pilotto piece), I’ve done the same thing with color. I’ve worn and re-worn too much yellow and red and green and pink to allow continued penetration in a world where I just want to be French.
Or maybe I really am slipping into a uniform. Maybe my trying on and taking off identities and repeating that process until I find something that sticks, that stays fresh, that doesn’t elicit an absolute urgency to locate the nearest Zara in pressing search of a temporary “new me” is just a testament to that.
Who am I kidding? When it boils down to the cold, dark facts, I just want everyone to know that I’m from New York.