As I got dressed this morning, I realized the end is near.
The end of summer whites, that is.
Pulling on my white, linen skirt, it occurred to me that I need to get all the wear I can out of my white skirts, white capris, white shorts, and, of course, white shoes, before the day arrives when we all must move our fashion clocks forward or risk being run out of town on a (white) rail – Labor Day. I know “they” say that we don’t have to abide by this archaic constraint any longer, but I don’t care. It just doesn’t feel right to be seen in public on the first Tuesday in September in anything brighter than an ecru or possibly a taupe.
Growing up in South Alabama, the minute Labor Day came, it didn’t matter that the thermometer still said “Summer.” The calendar proclaimed “Fall,” and that was all there was to it. God forbid you be seen at church that very next Sunday still wearing your white shoes! The raised eyebrows…the sideways glances…the whispers, “Bless her heart. Maybe she just doesn’t know any better!” The shame of it all!
You would have thought that to set one little toe outside the door in a white shoe after that most momentous of fashion deadlines would cause the tides to rise, the winds to howl, and chaos to ensue. Is the sun turning black? The moon, blood-red?
Even now, I just can’t risk it.