For almost twenty years of my adult life, I was obese. (I was also “chubby” as a kid, but won’t go there today.)
Obesity not only robbed me of health, vitality, and quality of life, it literally zapped colors right out of my life; not only deleting colorful food from my plate, but colorful clothing from my closet as well.
Over the years I invested in a few pieces of plus-size garments in the color black: a pair of black, stretch pants, a few black t-shirts, a black-patterned blouse, a black sweater, and a black jacket or two. Sometimes, rarely, a slight shade of gray was thrown into the mix, creating a rather dreary palette.
In fact, I had a “uniform” for all public events that I attended; my standard outfit consisted of a pair of size 3x black, stretch pants, and a black tank top with a lightweight, black-patterned blouse thrown over it. I wore it fall, winter, spring, and summer; even on the hottest, most sultry days of summer. It was suffocating, but it shielded glaring eyes from noticing my obesity. Of course, I always adorned myself with an artsy piece of jewelry so that people could focus on it, and not my size.
Gradually, over the course of this past year, as I got my health back, my closet started to change also, until one morning this past spring, I noticed an entire palette of beautiful and refreshing colors peaking out from its hangers. Pink. White with stripes. Sky blue. Aqua. Peach. Golden yellow. Light green. Lavender.
Black is beautiful, but becomes dreary when it’s the only color. An even drearier life. Terrible grammar, I know. But I don’t care. My closet is symbolic of the pretty colors flowing in my life now, and nothing else matters. No joking.