Pink and I have a love/hate relationship. I really didn’t have an opinion at all about pink when I first encountered it. I was the first girl grandchild on both sides of my family, so naturally my relatives felt the need to bombard me with pink everything from bonnet to bootie. I of course had no objections, all I cared about was that my tummy was full and had a clean diaper. Once I got old enough to actually see color I developed Swiss-like neutrality for pink. I didn’t hate it and I didn’t love it, but I knew that if one day I felt like wearing a pink shirt, Pink would have no objections. Those were the good ol’ days. But then came high school, and Pink and I have never been the same.
It all started with a girl named Lindsey, a name I frequently use for the villain in the stories I write. Lindsey and her toadies were those stereotypical cheerleader types that prance around in their short shorts, hot pink shirts and even hotter pink purses, thinking they were God’s gift to the world and the epitome of all men’s dreams. Oh you’re not a cheerleader type? Well then you’re fat and ugly. Let me affect your self-esteem for the next 3 years or so by letting you know that every once in a while. It keeps me from realizing what a loser I am. Isn’t this fun? It was easy to detect when they were headed your way. You’d catch a blinding glint of Lindsey’s blond hair from the top of the crowd and then see the flood of horrific pink trotting down the hall.
It didn’t take long for her to stop heckling me. She and her pink paraphernalia were no match for my whit and intelligence, and once she realized that it was all over. Girls like that don’t like being reminded of what they really are. But unfortunately my color scheme preference was scarred for life. It seemed that every girl I’d ever met that thought they were better than everyone else had some sort of pink accessory. So naturally I associate that loathsome characteristic with the color pink, tragic and unjust as it may seem.
Luckily, Pink has adapted to the situation and developed lighter shades that aren’t as obnoxious as self-centered. This light baby pink has become Pink’s redeeming hue, and is something that I treasure. My dad has a thing for that color. He bought a cashmere sweater in baby pink and proudly wears it to church and any other occasions he finds appropriate. Pink looks ridiculous on some people, but my dad pulls it off with style and finesse. Whenever I see that shade of pink I immediately think of my dad, and thinking of my dad always puts me in a good mood and makes me love my life. My dad is one of the best people I know, and he can always make me feel better no matter what stupid thing I’ve done. Light baby pink reminds me about how much my dad loves and cares about me, and that alone is enough to lift my spirits on any rainy day.
Amazing isn’t it? Pink can either make my day or break my day. Darker pinks make me angry and irritated beyond all reason, but lighter pinks make me happy and inspired. If Pink wasn’t adaptable and unique in its monochromatic spectrum I don’t know where we would stand today. But as it stands today, Pink and I understand each other. Pink doesn’t get angry and upset when I shudder in disgust at a hot pink purse, and I admire Pink’s versatility and beauty when I see my dad’s pink cashmere sweater. It’s a love/hate relationship, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.