I want to wear yellow. Not the wishy washy pastel but he full on, rich, egg yolk yellow. It’s everywhere. It’s the sun streaming into my bedroom as I wake and the daffodils which have punctured the brown and barely there green of my borders with glorious, luminous technicolour. It’s glamorous, impractical, rarely seen on anyone over the age of 5 and deeply alluring – for me anyhow. The trouble is, I look hideous in yellow: a jaundiced Big Bird with red lipstick. Not good. So, it’s been relegated to linings, in particular to the lining of the skirt with the boats….I know it’s there and that makes me smile.
I have come to terms with my delusions of glamour, born of too many lazy afternoons as a teenager glued to old films: if Edith Head had a hand in it, it was the film for me. I thought that it was perfectly reasonable to spend one’s adult life in acres of organza, that dresses (multiple, for every occasion) were an essential and normal part of one’s existence. Jeans? Don’t be daft. Perhaps, if I had a car engine to fix or a haystack to build, I might consider….Life has a funny way of slapping you in the chops and saying, ‘get a grip’.
I don’t mind not conforming. I don’t mind standing out. I like my clothes to be noticed (it is my job after all). And I don’t always need approval, nice though it is: a raised eyebrow or the flared nostril of contempt is just as gratifying. I am curious to see the type of person who does notice, though and I’ve discovered that they’re generally women of a similar age to me, sometimes well-dressed, sometimes not. Sometimes they’re young women and I’m not quite sure what they’re thinking, perhaps they’re indulging an old lady’s whimsy.
And that brings me on to the people whom I notice and although I have an obsession with what people wear, I notice more whether someone is at ease with themselves. One may wear the tattiest garb but still ooze style and that comes down to self-approval, to quite liking oneself. And that’s the stuff of PhD theses….
So, although I can’t wear yellow because it makes me look dead, what does it matter if I do the school run in a froth of pink chiffon? I’m happy.