Basic before basic was basic.

I bought the most amazing pajama suit last summer. (Pause for effect.) It’s Steven Alan, 100% silk, white with a subtle triangle print. It’s trendy…but so bedroom-to-boardroom versatile (logic)! I can break up the separates for double the fun (math)! I’ll wear it once a week for the next five years (desperate lies)!

I’ve worn it twice. Two and a half times, actually. Math!

Three years into my New York life, I’ve all but fallen to the cult of black on black. I don’t mind the idea of color — I’m just busy living the dream, okay, and I can’t be bothered with things like matching my clothes/checking my seat on the subway/doing laundry more than once a month. Black is chic. Black is easy. Black is kind to those who frequently slosh hot liquids down their fronts.

Black is harsh. I’m a very white human, physically speaking, and high-contrast isn’t always the most flattering move. Gray is good, but surprisingly tricky — I wind up buying all different shades and don’t like how they look together. Camel makes me look seasick. Navy makes me look waspy. White’s a win until lunch, after which I find myself trying to convince people that, what, I’ve been wearing this statement necklace all day, no, it is not made of office supplies and that stain is intentional, God, don’t you people appreciate art?

Black is chic. Black is easy. Et cetera.

You know what’s not too chic, though? Black plus any other color. It seems like it should work, but more often that not, it’s a one-way ticket to frumptown. Black plus print is fine, solid plus solid is a choice, but black plus solid? It’s like what you were ordered to wear to your choir concert, the kind that was too low-budget to spring for sparkly uniforms.

All due respect to the Columbus Gay Men’s Chorus.

I snark having made this mistake over and over, and wondering why such a basic look comes off looking so basic (logic!). It just is. That’s the problem. This combo just is so aggressively. Like, commit to black or put together a real outfit, you asshole. Or get onstage and shake what your mama gave you, because there’s a good chance she dressed you and drove you here.

So um, I guess this is me committing not to do this anymore (and also to wear my pajama suit). Black is a choice. I choose my choice. Choices, you know? Am I alone here? Do you dig this look? (You basic.)

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