Until I cracked the shell of my touring boot, literally every single piece of my backcountry kit was the same shade of deep cerulean – from my helmet to airbag pack to shades to my socks. It is not uncommon to find me out at dinner in a fit that is either monochrome navy or a mélange of maritime and sky and royal, down to my skivvies. To the extent that I am in a suit, it is likely either a midnight tuxedo or a classic Oxford two-button, often with a coordinating tie in cobalt or robin’s egg. My phone case, trusty lunchbox, daily puffy, laptop, mouse, and work backpack are clad in matching slate. Obsessively at best and perhaps even pathologically, I am ensconced in every conceivable Pantone of blue.
This unwavering predilection is either a source of amusement or bemusement, depending on the beholder. At the least, it is frequently remarked upon. The evolution of my sartorial and equipment color choices had been largely imperceptible to me until relatively recently, when the slow build exploded into closets of Bondi and celeste and electric. It is not completely uniform – I do own things that are pink or green or khaki or black, but statistically, I am living within one very specific section of the color wheel.
My fixation on the most prime primary color began at an early age, an era in which my brother and I expressed our dichotomous personalities by closely identifying, respectively, with red and blue. Despite having many of the same pieces of gear, it was easy to tell our stuff apart, helpful for siblings that were largely inseparable in our childhood. Some years ago now, as a Christmas present to Dane, I formed an LLC for us called Red & Blue Enterprises, a joint banner under which to engage in various projects that have long been gestating.
In the present day, I roll around with OPI “Do You Sea What I Sea” on my fingernails, and field questions not only about why I paint my nails at all, but why they are always some punny tint of azure. People have postulated all sorts of explanations, from matching my eyes (which, I admit, doesn’t hurt) to more nefarious reasons. In turn, I have done a lot of soul-searching about why I have so thoroughly embraced indigo and ultramarine and sapphire and their brethren/sistren.
Ultimately, the answer is simple – every single time I see blue, it makes me happy. When I look down and glimpse “Super Trop-i-cal-i-fiji-istic” on my toes, I grin. I could never quite understand why the blues are associated with melancholy, with the languid notes of sadness. To me, it is quite the opposite. My wardrobe is something like a security blanket, armor of aquamarine, a citadel of cyan. Not only does it protect my mood, but it uplifts it; my cup is topped up by turquoise. Having such a strong fixation has good practical effects too – I am almost never subject to analysis paralysis while shopping since I just choose the blue version of whatever I am purchasing.
As I have aged, I have largely stopped caring about what others think. I just want to do what serves me. So, if I step out into the skin track in a hilariously coordinated outfit, I’ll endure the gentle ribbing, a small price to pay for doing what I want. That sort of freedom has been hard-earned after decades of worrying about being judged; it’s the same insouciance that allows me to unabashedly wear nail polish or somesuch item out of the mainstream.
As Violet (notably, also a tint of blue) and I get set to embark on a spring break trip to visit our old haunts, I look forward to seeing a plethora of Delft pottery and cheering on the French national team. Allez Les Bleus!