WONKAFONKA

Due to my work-from-home pajama lifestyle, I haven’t done much shopping the last few years. I have a pretty solid collection of t-shirts and hoodies and yoga pants and, for dressing up, jeans and hoodie sweaters. So before our recent trip to Chicago, I decided I needed some actual clothes – something that you might not just decide to sleep in because you have it on an it’s comfy.  So I went shopping.

I tried on a heap of things, including a blouse/top/shirt thing that was a little more money than  I would normally spend on something like that, but it looked like my ideal shirt: cute, comfortable, sleeveless for easy wearing with layers or alone in warm weather, and black – goes with everything. I tried it on. It was perfect. Totally worth the more money than I would usually spend.  For a moment I stared at it intently in the bright dressing room lights. Was it actually dark, dark blue? Nope, I compared it to my (black) coat, my (black) tshirt – it was black. Woo hoo! Took it home and it went perfectly with everything I hoped to wear it with.

I took it with me to Chicago. Perfect for getting a little dressed up for the theater. Our hotel room had weirdly bright lights. Goddammit. Is it navy blue? I can’t believe it. I CAN’T BELIEVE IT.

“What color is this shirt?” I asked Klondike.

“Blue.” No hesitation.

GODDAMMIT!

I refuse to accept this.  The above incident never happened. My shirt is black. I am going to wear it as if it is black. You probably won’t be able to tell. It was so dim in the restaurant where we had dinner that night that I bet most of the other people at the table couldn’t even tell I was wearing ANY shirt, let alone what color it was. My shirt is black. If you ever see me wearing it and you think it might be blue, you are wrong. WRONG, I say.  And I dare you to say otherwise.

My shirt. Is black.