Many, many years ago, I wore patterned Wolford tights to my boyfriend’s father’s funeral. The kind where if someone glances down, they glance twice. In my defense, I styled them responsibly for a young professional in my early 20s: a black Dolce & Gabbana midi skirt suit and black Chloé d’Orsay ankle-strap pumps. Only a sliver of hosiery visible between mid-calf and ankle. It was controlled. Thoughtful, even. My boyfriend (now husband) said nothing at the time, which I took as approval. I later learned it was not approval. It was paralysis. He still brings it up 20 years later.
It wasn’t that I looked bad. It was that I looked like anything at all. Funerals are not performance reviews for your personal style. They are not an opportunity to demonstrate that you can make interesting fashion choices. They’re the time to blend so completely into appropriateness that no one remembers what you wore, only that you were there.
