As I was getting dressed for a party last night, I held briefly in my right hand a lovely black dress. My mother would have been so proud: It was elegant and demure and altogether proper. It was that type of party. But I am not that type of girl, so I wore instead

• a one-sleeved bright orange sweater,
• a sunshine yellow skirt,
• bright blue beads on my wrist and in my ears,
• a patent leather kelly green clutch, and
• sedately — and perhaps disappointingly — black tights and shoes.

I will be the first to admit: It bordered on looking like an explosion in the produce section (subtitle: when citrus goes bad!). And it continued my current style of dressing, which I term (affectionately) as Explosion at the Skittles Factory, as Imagined by a Deranged Eight Year-Old.

A few years ago, I took a good look at my closet and came to this realization: I was ready, and seemingly on-call, for 365 days of funerals. Everything was black. Dresses. Pants. Sweaters. Shoes. Casual. Work. Formal. Gym. An unremitting sea of sober dark clothes, broken up at times (just for the heck of it) by something as dicey as grey or navy. It didn’t show dirt, and it all made my butt look smaller, and it was all very well and good.

But it really wasn’t me. I laugh a lot, and I am slightly loud, and I sing, and I dance — none of which you could tell by my closet. And more to the point, dear reader, I was getting older, and all of these dark clothes made me look drawn and pale and wan. So I started buying clothes whose primary function (other than providing coverage) was to make me happy.

I have learned a few things along the way. Apparently, in my heart of hearts, I am a Miami Dolphins superfan: coral and turquoise is a frequent combination. I have an overwhelming preference for all things bright pink. (Curse you, Barbie!)  I cannot own enough orange. Or bright blue. Or yellow. Or citron. Red is my new black, and leopard print is a neutral. Much like a racoon at a campsite, I gravitate to the shiny. As my friend Jerry calls me, I am the Fighting Highlighter. As I wade through waves of tasteful neutrals and sedate colors, I feel like an exclamation point.

What is my biggest sartorial surprise? How others react. I have a job where I deal with people in terribly stressful times in their lives, and clients frequently tell me that my clothes make them feel calm, cheery, and hopeful. People smile at me more on the street, and I smile back. In line at McDonald’s, I had an engaging talk with a young male construction worker about costume jewelry. A homeless man stopped me on the streets of Asheville; he did not want to ask me for money, he said, because he wanted to talk to me about my shoes. (I gave him money anyway.)

And at the drink station at a Chipotle, when I was wearing a turquoise polka-dotted skirt, a coral top, a brightly patterned scarf, and neon yellow Chuck Taylors, a stranger hugged me soundly because my clothes made her happy. She said she he wished that she could dress like I did, so I told her my pretty unremarkable secrets: She had to buy only what made her feel good, suspend most notions of what actually matched, and become genuinely comfortable in what she was wearing. (Her horrified husband simply stared at me like I was some deranged eight year-old. Go figure.)

Listen, we go around only once. We all connect with ourselves and others in different ways. Clothing may not be your thing — believe it or not, I get that — but the desire for joy is universal. I had to have something to cover my form, and I have never regretted my decision to phase out the widow’s weeds. After a sometimes hard-fought struggle, I am happy; I might as well look happy; and I might as well make strangers happy, even if only for a moment.

ALC