Winter Shades of Violet

I saw a woman the other day, she was seventy maybe. The emerald green converse on her feet suggested she had been sashaying through cobblestone for years. She wore gold tights. Her skirt was teal, leather maybe? and her shirt- a rusty shade of violet with an image of what appeared to be a flock of seagulls ironed-on.  A khaki fedora sat atop her head. She wore a yellow raincoat. Naturally, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. 

Shame on me, for something crossed my mind like, "did she get locked inside TJ Maxx?? piss drunk??" I shook my head to erase the thought but kept my eyes on her. She gave me a knowing smile and turned the corner. 

As the rain poured down the following evening, I stood positively helpless in front of my closet- flipping off my hangers with only thirty minutes to a dinner a reservation. The woman in the street crossed my mind. How easy it must be for her to get dressed I began to think. How she probably never has to worry about walking into a restaurant, only to find a striking similarity between her black cardigan and knee boots and the woman sitting next to her. How everything about her was her own. She owned her style. And yes it is true, no one else in the room would probably want it, at the very least it was hers..

So, as Winter looms overhead like an f-ing fruit fly and the term "seasonal depression" becomes as worn out as an old pair of converse, I think we could all use a few pointers from "our lovely lady of iron-on-seagulls." 

Don't give up on what defines you. Don't give into the darkest shades of winter blues. Mix your favorite pair of ridiculous heels with some chunky cable knit tights and a leather- teal anyone? knee skirt and kick 'em off half way through dinner as you laugh about it with wine-stained teeth. Take a crisp white blouse and suffocate it with layers of originality. Carry a purse you haven't spoken to in years. Allow a lighter shade of red to emerge from your lips. Wear a fedora. For soon enough spring will arrive and winter will become nothing more than a rusted violet memory. At the very least- you'll want to be able to say you had a little fun with it while it was here.

*This  is a variation of a story I wrote while living in Spain. At 32 weeks pregnant and a steady diet of pasta of root beer floats, I am neither wearing nor doing any of the beforementioned - but felt the urge to pull the story out for inspiration nonetheless.