There are those who will tell you that summer is a time for color, that big brights and crisp whites are the cornerstones of style from June though August.
I never knew people thought this way until I moved to a place where summer isn’t continuous all year round. You know what I wore as a sullen teenager growing up in South Florida? Black. Lots of black. Black was my feeble resistance against the totally bogus and shallow easygoing sunshine culture of my hometown. GOD. Why are people here so FAKE?
It was only once I’d moved to New England that I discovered that people have season-specific wardrobes in places where there are actual seasons. As many curious looks as I got for being a black-clad grimacing teenage twerp in South Florida, folks in New England seemed overtly perplexed by my gloomy attire in warm weather. Wasn’t I hot?
No, you halfwits. I grew up in Florida. Also can’t you see I’m in mourning?
Though my goth days -- nights, whatever -- are behind me, I still cultivate an appreciation for brooding blacks in summertime. Here are a few selections for the discerning ample lady in search of funereal attire in which to lament the sunshine and embrace the darkness.
Nothing screams “seaside holiday” like black lace. And a peplum. Remember what I said about peplums? Instant ladyness, plus useful for hiding any bloat from all the absinthe you drank the night before.
This dress looks like something Mrs. White from “Clue” would wear to a picnic. I expect she’d bring sausages. Lots of sausages.
Possibly you require a garment that expresses your unpredictable despair in a physical manner, demonstrating that you are so very dejected that you have failed to pay any attention to your hemline. Indeed, this hemline represents your emotional state: uneven, inexplicable and confusing as hell.
Bonus points if you smear yourself with dirt and stagger a little, for that coveted “I just crawled out of my grave and haven’t seen a full-length mirror yet” brand of effortless beauty.
This dress is based on the garment worn by the teenaged ghost of an abandoned 19th century house in Salem, Massachusetts. Legend has it that she was dancing with some friends in the local graveyard, in the rain, at night, to the strains of a local underground string ensemble calling themselves The Dusty Quims, when she slipped on a bit of spilled candle wax and hit her head on a nearby gravestone belonging to a victim of the original Salem Witch Trials.
She never regained consciousness, but it is a little known fact that her incoherent warblings, transcribed by an elderly nurse named Mrs. Bagfurt, provided the lyrics to Sisters of Mercy’s entire first album.
Just because you're depressed doesn't mean you can’t share your tits with the world. Ah, but your tits might make others happy, posing a conundrum, as you cannot bear to bring happiness to anyone, since doing so would only make your own despair sting all the more keenly.
Solution: You can share them through this mesh force field, such that others are both drawn to their sexitude like a magnet to sorrowful steel, but are simultaneously saddened by your boobs’ inaccessibility. Misery all around!
Want to be mistaken for a melancholy waitress at the diner of the sunless dawn, where lost souls sullenly sip coffee so bitter and black that a mere drop would rend asunder the blood of any foolish mortal who dares wander beyond the veil of wretchedness, which stands just off exit 666 of the bleak highway screaming through the barren bleached-bone wasteland that is home to the most foul spirits cast from hell by Satan himself for expressing a horror of evil beyond even what the devil can bear?
Here you go.
Of course, you can always dress yourself to imitate a coffin lining, as a visual reminder to others of their imminent mortality. Surely that is why no one wants to sit next to you on the bus, and not because of your surrounding miasma of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab and a sighing resignation to perpetual despair.
See, wearing black in the summertime can be fun! Pleasant dreams, little gloomshionistas.