Path of totality calls for formality
(Originally published April 2024)
What does one wear to a solar eclipse?
As you know, we have one coming up Monday, and I want to be dressed appropriately. Vermont won’t be in another “path of totality” until May 3, 2106, and I might have other plans that day, so I want to do this one right.
I’m thinking something formal. In Middlebury, totality is only going to last about 55 seconds, which is perfect; I can’t wear three-inch heels for much longer than that without limping for two days afterward.
“I’ve ruled out my go-to black number; that’s a bit too on-the-nose for an eclipse. ”
On the other hand, an eclipse is not really a “see-and-be-seen” kind of thing. It’s more just “see” (and then only if you have the proper glasses). But it is a special occasion, and I don’t get to dress up that often.
I’ve read that up to four million people are going to travel to see the eclipse along its 9,000-mile route. One of those is a friend of mine who is driving up from the Hudson Valley to join me. (Perhaps she will get to experience an equally rare—but related—phenomenon: bumper-to-bumper traffic on Route 22A.)
Originally, we were thinking of heading north to Burlington, where totality will last just over three minutes. Then I found out that around 100,000 people may be descending on the city. I have made it a personal goal never to be in the proximity of 100,000 people under any circumstances, so that’s out.
We might just stand out in the yard and call it good enough.
Right now, I’m laying out a few dress choices. I’ve ruled out my go-to black number; that’s a bit too on-the-nose for an eclipse. Something springlike would be nice, but it’s not that warm out yet, so it won’t be an off-the-shoulder or strapless gown. I want something glamorous but refined, something that says, “This is a breathtaking natural phenomenon,” not “I’m losing my mind with excitement.”
And I won’t be losing my mind. As much as I’m looking forward to seeing the eclipse, I’m not sure why it’s such a big deal. It won’t last long, we know it’s coming, and it will be captured on video for posterity. Sure, it will remind us of our own insignificance, but if you’ve ever been on hold with customer service at a large corporation, you already know that feeling.
I guess it’s about awe—being amazed by this striking celestial event that will, however briefly, block the star we depend on for life, the ultimate source of heat and light, the reason for SPF 50.
If you think an eclipse is a big deal now, imagine how ancient people must have reacted when the sky went dark without warning. Until two or three millennia ago, people didn’t fully understand eclipses. A mysterious, possibly malevolent, black blot moving across the sun must have caused more than a little panic.
In a minute or two, the blot would start moving on. But these people would be left confused: Was this a warning? Would it happen again the next day? Should they sacrifice something, just in case?
If nothing else, I hope that instead of staring directly at the sun, they prostrated themselves on the ground in fear of whatever angry god they believed had caused this. The odds of your average hunter-gatherer having ISO-certified glasses on hand were virtually nil.
As a modern human, I understand what causes eclipses. Still, as the moon begins to block the sun, I will marvel at the sight. Briefly, anyway.
Totality may last less than a minute, but that’s more than enough marveling time for me. After 20 to 30 seconds, I’ll be trying to remember the name of the maid on The Jeffersons or debating whether I have time to defrost a pound of ground beef before dinner. My birdlike attention span limits my capacity for prolonged awe.
After that, the shadow will move away, and four million people will go sit in traffic. Their wonder at the miracles of our solar system will be obliterated by rage at the driver in front of them who just won’t jockey into the merge line.
My friend and I won’t be among those people. In fact, I’m starting to think we should just watch the eclipse from the back porch. As much as I’d like to experience the event in the wide expanse of our hay field, getting out there in three-inch heels wouldn’t be much fun.
