I have this strange faith in black shirts. Somehow I feel like wearing one makes me this wonderful person, an expert professional, a wise partner and an overall goddess in jeans. And I couldn’t get myself to buy one.
Over the past few years I’ve bought all sorts of black things – black sweaters, black cardigans, t-shirts and even this one thing that I’m not sure how to describe. It’s main feature is a plunging neckline. No normal working black shirt.
The last perfect shirt I gave away to my sister after I’d grown out of it. Since then it’s just been too much fun to think about how much fun it would be to own one. You can just put it on in the morning when you’re heading to meetings. Just think about how sleek you’d look. And little energy and no worries about fashion sense.
Then my friend Lisa came to visit after a year away living her dream life. We went for coffee and on the way back to the car I had to stop at a store to check out black shirts. They didn’t have my size.
“Do you want one of mine?” Lisa asked.
“You have extra?”
“I have three.”
The next morning I was changing into a perfect black working shirt in the driver’s seat of our truck. So what if some passersby saw me in a bra. This is Vegas.
I buttoned it up and went to my afternoon event in full goddess mode, still in awe of mysterious ways of the universe and awesomeness of incredible friends. Thanks, Lisa!