Clothes the colour of porridge

Beige pants. They were on the $5 rack at the thrift shop. The first day I glimpsed them, I walked by - not surprising if you know me. I mean, beige, right? Knit, right? Not my thing.

Later that same day I stumbled across a couple of top blogs that were featuring expensive beige camel pants as a seasonal must-have. Uh-oh.

So the next day I went to the shop and had a closer look. They were still there. Missoni, fully lined, finely made, new condition, perfect fit. Sold. $5.

It happened so fast. What was I thinking!? Beige and on trend? It was like watching myself in a movie, screaming: DON'T GO IN THERE!!

The hand forking over the $5 was not my own: it was an imaginary well-manicured and moisturized hand attached to a calm and expensively-scented woman with a Cartier watch, fine pantyhose hosiery and a luxury handbag with a discreet logo, a woman with a quiet, carpeted walk-in closet the size and grandeur of a church, where matching pristine pieces hang on padded hangers.

Clearly I made a mistake. I suddenly started to feel like the next photo. Reminder to self: Never, NEVER go shopping without your morning coffee.

I had considered burying these pants (not à la Stephen King's "Pet Sematary" - who knows what would rise from the ground!) in a ruffled multicoloured lacy blouse and loud coat. Aah, too easy. Too guilt-free.

In the end, I decided to revel in my beigeness. How about a lovely fitted white blouse with extra long sleeves, my D&G pony heels, my so-soft brown leather belt? That would be nice. I even released my beige caramel wool/cashmere coat from its space bag after two years in lock-up.

But the imagined perfection, on this particular day, left me feeling rankled. Restless. Caged. Trapped in that perfect closet.

So like a little truffle pig I rooted out my combat boots and a corset T from Shelley of Forest City Fashionista. And lucky for me, the coat and pants clashed rather well - the coat a greeny beige and the pants a pinky beige. The idea of neutrals in conflict appealed. Then I added three belts and tower hair. My groove had been restored. Kind of. Inside I was wearing polka-dots, almost.

So that's me in beige. I walked with a swagger with my hands jammed in my pockets and wore my squinty Emporio Armani sunglasses, to bring a slightly darker tone to the look. And I clomped - that's what these boots do best.

These pants make me think of that Marianne Faithful song, "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan," here. Lucy is a suburban housewife ready to hurl herself from the rooftop because she realizes that at the age of 37(!) she'll never ride through the streets of Paris in a sports car. Heavy stuff. 

Well, I'm 54 and I still see myself tearing all over the place in a little sports car (well, because I have one, in yellow) - but not in beige clothes. Beige is calm, tidy, so non-freaked out. It's a porridge colour that doesn't suit me. I'd rather wear $20 tattered pants that look like all hell broke loose.

You can see how beige distorts me. Well, technically it's the T-shirt, but you know what I mean.

And that's my report. I got a haircut last night - hurray! A post on that will have to wait. See? It's an exciting life over here.

I guess I'll probably link something up later too. Maybe I'll edit this post too. Who knows?

Edit: I'm linking up to Patti at Not Dead Yet Style for Visible Monday, of course.
And I'm pretty sure I'll link up to Catherine at #iwillwearwhatilike at Not Dressed as Lamb when the time comes.