Fighting the Blues with Yellow

To speak of the length and the ardor and the fury of this long, long, bitter winter is, essentially, to speak of our inevitable senescence: known, familiar, looming, omnipresent, and no amount of complaining or commentary has the mythic power to induce any part of change. For those with an inexhaustible ability to rant, rave, kvetch, expound, and so forth and so on, certainly much more can and will be said about the unpleasant weather these last months, but, aside from transient and surely ultimately unsatisfactory sense of passive action, nothing will be accomplished. In a way, this beautiful constancy, the weather, as a perpetually reliable source of rhetoric and conversation, is a grand relief, an oasis for those overwhelmed with all the other almighty and potentially more profound life-forces that refuse to be budged. 

Falling into a type of rut, since university there have been a few types of pairs of shoes that I consistently purchase and then purchase again. Black ballet flats, like the topic of weather during those brief introduction moments of a client teleconference, the agenda in pause while waiting for all invitees to join, are always useful. Tall leather boots. Red heels. And, for me, a bit less typical, a pair of pointed toe flats in some shade of indigo or deep violet. I have owned some pair or another of a lush floral blue consistently, finding them the perfect accompaniment for most black, gray, navy, red outfits. In a rare moment of change, at the start of the winter, I took a chance on this pair, a sort of neon jelly bean yellow. They were a steal, with a marked discount, and were leftover from the dregs of late summer, early autumn, which are but a glimmer in most memories these days. I bet they were intended to be worn with cropped white pants or a loose chambray shift; I have been pairing them with monochrome black, a beacon of warmth and light against the sharp winds and cruel ice of this winter.

The latest rendition of yellow against black was this past Saturday night, for an evening of rich barbecue and crazed dancing to delicious 1980s beats with some buddies from work. We were celebrating and commemorating one of our own, the only other lady in our crew, who is moving on to greener, warmer pastures below the Mason-Dixon. While breaking a sweat on the club floor, these shoes got more than a bit dirty. Luckily for me, patent leather is a breeze to wipe clean. I am still coming to terms with the loss of my office gossip-gal, and of a truly gifted designer, but I am glad we and my snappy yellow shoes could send her onto her new adventures in style.