I was OK with the color pink until the last semester of high school. Then I discovered The Cure and The Smiths and Sisters of Mercy, and dyed my hair red, and also discovered -- or rather, let free -- my inner sarcastic bitch. Since I was bullied for being a geek for years, I associated pink with the weak kind of femininity, and that I decided, was not the woman I wanted to be.
Years passed. I have my flaws, my weaknesses, as does everyone, but I became known as a strong woman, a touch chick. A guy I had a crush on called me a "gladiator" -- he meant to be flattering, but since I had a crush, I was taken aback.
My nickname, among my close friends, is "Captain," because I am a take-no-shit, take-charge woman. I'm forty-two years old now. I AM a strong woman. But I have made my peace with pink. It doesn't lessen my strength or turn me into a stock-character fainting damsel in distress. I look GOOD in pink.
And for my forty-third birthday, I am going to get my fifth tattoo: "Captain."
In pink ink.
Hah. I thinks that's a feeling most women can empathize with, there. I started wearing jewel tones and other dark colors when I realized how restricting pink and other pastels felt. Especially since the pinks you could find back in the 70s all tended to be baby pinks, not bright pinks or darker rose pinks which flatter my complexion.
Shopping for baby clothes when your own girl is on the way is an eye-opening experience. It’s not just about the pink. Although, you’ll see pink in every shade. You know those onesies are for a baby years away from being able to reading, but you have to ask yourself about the messages they’re sending out. The blue onesie says “future lawyer”; the pink onesie says “future trophy wife”. The blue onesie says “future heartbreaker”; the pink onesie says “I’m not allowed to date, ever.” There is no blue companion to the pink onesie that says, “I hate my thighs”.
Apparently I have a lot of pink thoughts at the moment. So, here is another one:
My soon to arrive baby girl will inherit plenty of pink clothes from her cousin and get more as gifts. So, I tell my mother not too much pink and no pale pink at all. She doesn’t hear me or simply doesn’t understand. “You’re having a girl but you’re going to dress her like a boy?”, she asks. I really don’t have anything against girly clothes or even pink, especially bright bubblegum and fuchsia, but even frilly dresses come in other colors like sage and lavender. Meanwhile, for all the pink my mother buys, I buy black clothes, for balance.
Strix, great piece. Pink ink!
sj, loved 'em. Suggested title: The Pink Baby Blues.
Thanks, Wolfram. Great title.
I didn't have thoughts on the color(Although I'd love to make the designers of the horrible onesies see red, but I still wrote about Pink.
100 words, exactly.
Her voice, wounded yet resilient, asked us “Who Knew?” from the stereo it had taken us three months to put together. Once again, I knew whatever I knew from observing other people’s pain. It wasn’t quite that I wanted some for myself, exactly, some radioactive time or date to tread carefully around, some name that was often on my mind but almost never on my lips. Just, at some point, it should be time, shouldn’t it? Time to leave the emotional kiddie pool of imagining lives with people who only recently learned I existed. Whoever knew, it wasn’t me.
