Ten years ago, a boyfriend told me I wore too much black.

At first I thought (and said), “So what?”

My funeral attire became a running joke between us. I’d show up at his house for dinner, pull off my jacket, and he’d say, “Ah. Black tonight, huh?”

Having been on my own for so long, I was not one to quickly change for someone else–if at all.

Nor did Michael ask me to, initially.

He did, however, make it clear how much he loved when I showed up in blue (which he declared my best color).

I learned purple doesn’t really count as “color” in Michael’s book–it’s too close to black. And black is not a color.

And though I would get exponentially more compliments from people when I wore red, Michael wasn’t one of those people.

A few months into our relationship, on the first 75 degree day of the year, I donned my favorite red and white sundress and headed out for a walk. I met Michael a few hours later and he was stunned. “Why have I never seen this dress before?”

“We’ve only been dating since December–you’ve never seen any of my summer clothes.”

As we discussed various preparations for our upcoming trip to Europe, he wondered if my costuming would be as dreary there as it is here. “My summer clothes are much brighter,” I assured him. To prove my point, I invited him over to help me decide which clothing items to bring with me.

Michael was continually amazed by the color in the summer half of my closet. Items determined to be worthy of bringing with us were laid on my bed.

The pile grew.

“What about the formal nights on the cruise?” he asked. I wasn’t so sure those were even required events on cruises anymore, but still he insisted I needed something. “Don’t you have a cocktail dress or something?” he asked.

“I do. But they’re all black.”

Perhaps the pile of color on my bed gave me a little leeway. “Show me,” he said.

I first stepped into the only dress remaining from my college days: V-shaped both in the front and back, fitted bodice, flared skirt that hits just above the knees. “Yup. Bring that one.”

“It’s black, you know,” I said, smiling.

I couldn’t remember the last time I wore that dress, however, because I had another that jumped out whenever a little-black-dress occasion called, and that’s the one I slipped into next. It was a hand-me-down from my best friend, Dawn. This was no faded-shirt-worn-by-an-older-sister hand-me-down, but a strapless number that hugged curves I never knew I had. “Take that one, too,” Michael said.

“Seriously? How many formal nights are we going to have?” He didn’t know, but that didn’t matter.

He looked at the pile of clothes on my bed. “These are all your summer clothes?”

“Yeah,” I said, surveying the scene. “But I’m not going to bring them all.”

“Why not? You could fit them all in one suitcase.”

“That’s not the point,” I said. Just because I could fit them all didn’t mean I wanted to bring them all.

Three months later, Michael and I took off for our aforementioned three month trip to Europe. Everything I needed was in a carry-on and a 30 liter backpack. And there was only one black item in the whole lot.

Five years later, thanks mostly to Michael, my wardrobe was nearly devoid of black. So Michael proposed.

My engagement ring? Yep. It includes sapphires. “Now you’ll always be wearing something blue,” Michael said.

(I’d love to say I showed up to my wedding in a black dress. But I didn’t think of it at the time. Oh how I wish I had!)

Five years after that, I find I really miss black. It goes with nearly every other color. It’s hard to get dirty. I can dress it up with some jewelry. Dress it down with a pair of jeans and black flats. Which I didn’t own. Until three days ago when I saw a cute pair in a shop window. Michael wasn’t there to dissuade me. I bought them. And, much to Michael’s disapproval I’m sure, I’m going to keep my eye out for some black clothes to go with them.