I may have walked on a runway. I may have even immersed myself in a hip, fashion forward city once. However, when it comes to piecing together an outfit? I may as well be asked to figure out calculus find the cure for cancer.

All of my life, my fashion sense hinged upon ideas from things around me. A fitted, ultra chic ensemble in the window of Banana Republic, I’ll run inside to try it on, only to confirm my body shape is nothing like a mannequin. A soft, multi-colored pastel sun dress from a friend’s closet, I try it on, only to find that it accentuates my narrow shoulders and king-king size arse.

So what’s a girl to do?

I run and hide under my fallback jeans and black shirt. Or black pants and black shirt. Or black dress and a black pashmina.

See a pattern here?

No, I am not in perpetual mourning, nor am I color blind. On the contrary, I am merely benevolent to public eyes, and avoid blinding everyone with my poor color coordination.

However, my father-in-law IS colorblind. He purchased a new Black automobile years ago, drove it home, only to find his family completely baffled at why he would buy a Purple car. His son, Dadisodes? He’s no help either. Up until last year, he thought wearing brown shoes with a black shirt was kosher.

*Insert head shake and eye roll*

My daughter is swimming in a color handicapped gene pool!

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