Clothing takes on more importance when you have no say in choosing what you wear. Unlike my own daughter who was free to pair her polka dot shirt with her striped pants in kindergarten, my mother carefully crafted my outfits. The colors she chose for me were the same ones she chose for herself. Brown, beige, and taupe. A dubious choice for a mature woman. A horrible mistake for a girl in elementary school. She chose "tasteful" clothes for me. No flowers, no ruffles or lace. Everything was very Bergdorf Goodman circa 1955. Except this was more like 1968.  My mother insisted on understated and sophisticated. I wanted Mod and Twiggy.

On school days I wore a plaid skirt with a large pin which I suppose was some sort of kilt. I wore knee socks and saddle shoes. Or brown Oxfords. This was not Catholic school. This was my mother's doing.

The shoes were bad enough. But God Help Me, I had a drawer full of berets my mother jauntily perched on my eight year old head. I'm surprised I even had any friends.

I was a Glamour magazine Don't from head to toe.

In junior high I quietly rebelled. As soon as I stepped off the school bus, the transformation began. I rolled up my skirt into a mini skirt like the other girls.  I changed my shirt in the bathroom. My friends let me borrow their blue eyeshadow and Yardley lip pots. I was good to go. Until the day I saw my mother standing in the office with her beige shoes and matching handbag. I had forgotten about my orthodontist appointment. We stared at each other. It was hard to say who was more horrified.

As a teenager, I left home and delighted in the freedom I had to choose my own clothes. I got my ears pierced. I wore long dangly earrings, Mexican peasant blouses and flowered skirts that twirled.  I wore baggy hip-hugger jeans and my boyfriend's flannel shirts. I took my bra off. I felt good in everything I wore back then.  

I had no real fashion sense but I didn't want any either. It was a perfect way to rebel against my mother's stuffy dress code. It was a heady time.  A time of self discovery through my clothing.  I was young and self-assured, leaving a trail of amber and patchouli in my wake.

As I got older I became a more conservative dresser. Not Talbot's conservative, but I did put my bra back on.

 I got a job at Saks 5th Ave. I lived on crackers and instant soup but I had a wardrobe to die for.  With my 40% discount I bought the cutest dresses, the hottest shoes and the fanciest underwear I've ever owned. (And haven't owned any like that since.)  Every week I left a large chunk of my paycheck at the store.  It was the first time I had ever taken more than a passing interest in fashion. I wore high heels, Chanel No.5, and an air of confidence.

I still enjoyed stylish clothes as I got older and became somebody's mother. But I started going more for comfort. I wore my cotton flowered maternity dress long after the baby was walking and talking.

 Although my teenage daughter and I wear the same size she is very clear that I am not allowed to borrow her clothes. When she is away at school I sift through all the clothing she has left behind. Sometimes I try things on just to see if I can double my wardrobe while she is gone. She is right. I look ridiculous.

Like my mother, I appreciate well made clothes and clean lines. She didn't like anything fussy and neither do I. But that is where the similarity ends. I cannot put on anything brown, beige or taupe without needing to take it off immediately. They are the saddest colors in the world on me.

For the last ten years or so most of my wardrobe has been black. Black is beautiful. It works for everything from cocktail dresses to jeans to bathing suits.  Black has been good to me. It is easy sophistication and hides a multitude of sins.

Lately however, I am reaching for the clean lines and well made clothes in aubergine or azure. Jewel tones speak to me now. I love wearing turquoise and teal, raspberry and plum. 

Simply put, clothes have always been about the way they make me feel.

I feel pretty good in the clothes I wear now. I buy an occasional mistake.  But unlike the years I spent in saddle shoes and berets, I can look at my reflection in the mirror most days and not cringe.