Oh, To Be Chic

We try.  But, we don’t necessarily succeed.

On the whole, we’re relatively comfortable in our clothes.  We enjoy bright colors, old tee-shirts, pleated khakis and mis-matched socks.  But when you go to New York, you can’t do that.  If you want to be chic, or not stand out like a sore thumb, you have to get with the program. Which is black.  All black and only black. 

And so it was, in order to be chic, that we packed our black clothes in our black suitcases and checked into a chic hotel in New York.  We knew it was chic because it was black.  The rug, the chairs, the lamps. Ditto the tables, the bedspread.  Also, the sink and the mini-fridge.

The lighting was chicly dim.  The closet was chicly small.  The clothes hangers were chicly dark grey.  The ever-so-chic bath tub….free standing in the middle of the mostly black bathroom…..was actually white.  Getting in was easy.  Getting out was quite another issue.

We don’t have cataracts.  Anymore.  But that doesn’t mean that we see clearly all of the time.  Which is to say that we left several items behind.  Of course we did.  Black-on-black just doesn’t have the same don’t-forget-me-quality of hot-pink on bright-yellow.

As a result of all that intended chicness, we’re missing one black sock, my favorite black turtleneck and the Mister’s black-framed glasses.

We’ll be all right.  Eventually.  We’re just a few pieces less-chic than we were before we went to New York.