Everyone in Boston has fallen back on their warm weather staples. Denim shorts or skirts with tank tops for the women. Cargo or chino shorts with polos or tees for the men. Flip flops all around.
I open my closet, and my clothes conjure thoughts of suffocating before I reach the bottom of our stairs. The thick belts I pair with my dresses resemble heat traps. Cardigans and light sweaters mock me. I think that I should start investing in some basic tees. Then I remember that I already have enough tees. I simply choose not to wear them. On me they read as lazy as opposed to casual and effortless.
On Tuesday, I pulled on my denim capris. My brain, barely functioning in this humidity, decided that something that rests that close to the skin can’t hold heat. I chose not to question that dodgy piece of logic. My eyes drifted to the linen sweater casually lying in another corner of my room. Only days earlier, as what I believed to be the first hint of autumn entered the air, I had worn it out while getting a quick drink. I closed the closet door. Finally my eyes landed on a forgotten piece hanging in a different part of the house.
Bought last year as I wandered through Gap, it was a shirt worn almost too often after the rains fled last summer. I have shrunk and the shirt has not, and I, so concerned about things fitting properly, had stopped wearing it. But it was never meant to be a perfect fit. Paper thin and prone to stretching as the day wears on, it had always hung off of me a bit. I pulled it on.
It proved to be the perfect choice. Light and loose yet somehow slimming. Cool and airy.
I've begun to wonder if I should have invested in multiples.
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