"So are you into the postmodern thing at all?"
"Well you seem to wear a lot of black..."
"It does go with everything..."
I can't help but be amused at the commentary on the wardrobe of yours truly, stumbling ten years late into some semblance of personal style where the basic black seems to work well as a common denominator and is less prone to being permanently ruined by spilled drinks or other unforeseen incidents. I'm a bit too dogmatic on certain matters to be postmodern about anything, but the color suits my melancholic tendencies well.
It's been so hot that I've been wearing the same skirts over and over and figured it was time to do the annual I-need-something-for-work shopping thing. I've never been into shopping for clothing, as books and music and now plants are infinitely more interesting, though I'm less fashionally challenged than I once was, but usually end up grabbing a shirt or two at Target or a thrift store or something, not really having to avoid the mall since I don't live near one.
So it feels surreal to walk through the air-conditioned corridors not surrounded by fellow chicas, aware of marketing and vapid pulsing music, finding that I'm in a strange in-between stage, being too old for the tastes of the Bright Young Things and not wanting to head into MiddleAgedSuburbanCareerWoman territory either, as neither mid-thigh nor floor-length in ruffles or loud flower prints are me, neither are bright colors, superfluous ruffles and accents.
And so I end up not getting anything and gawking at gorgeous photos and art tomes at Half Price books and the vinyl bins the Record Exchange instead, amused by the hipsters are smoking cigars in the parking lot next to a brand new Toyota Corolla.
Back at the casa, I reheat leftover pasta, pull weeds, and fall asleep on the couch with the windows open to catch the lake breezes which meld with the medieval chants on the stereo beautifully.