I have three red shirts in my closet. For most people, this is probably not a stunning development. For me, it is practically as revolutionary as the color associations have been. I have black clothes, and when I want to spice it up, I move to gray or tan. Seriously. I’ve flirted with blues, but unless they are navy, even they feel a bit daring to me. And now I’ve gone red.
When I was a dancer, I had a choreographer who related a theory told to him by his favorite choreographer: “If you wear red, you must dance red.”
Naturally, I thought he was a pretentious git, and I did my signature move of eye-roll and dismissal. Well, I definitely did the eye-roll. Apparently, the dismissal didn’t happen quite as easily. I think somehow the idea that if I wore red, I’d have to dance red (or be red in non-performance life) took permanent hold.
I can’t be red. I’m not a red person. Red means “look at me.” It means “passion.” It means “pay attention to me, or you will wish you would have.”
“On Girls” wear red. I wear the daily equivalent of camouflage.
It’s not that I haven’t given it consideration. There is a pair of red stilettos in my closet that I have never worn. One of the fashion gurus said something about them being too provocative unless you are streetwalker, and I hid them in my closet.
But apparently, you can only keep red inside for so long.
This weekend I took the red out for a spin.
I liked it.
Look out Los Angeles.