I’m doing it again. Pink. Not the artist known as. Me. Dressed in pink thermal top (Gap), pink sequined sneakers (Kate Spade Keds), pink and orange socks, and pink underoos (Culprit). Not dressy, just comfort for my writing day. It’s been happening since the collision last fall that cost me my beloved MINI and provided me with a concussion; barotrauma on an international flight that resulted in 50% deafness; and finding of a microscopic breast cancer two months ago.  Just so you know, at the moment, the Sparkle shoes are drying off after I tromped through poop walking my Waffles.

Sparkle and shit.

Recently, after a lovely long lunch with a good friend, we decided to shop. Since shutdown, I’ve  become a mail order maven. I’m embarrassed by how much arrives at our front door via Amazon. And every other company that offers free shipping.  On this day, we opted for strolling through shops. I walked right past anything that created a retail cosmic hole. I’d worn black for decades. Easy, right? Opening my bureau drawers had become an exercise of staring into a void. More than a decade at the day job meant grabbing black, grey, or the fake black (navy) every single day. By weekends I really didn’t care what I wore as long as it didn’t involve a blazer with “slacks” or dress. Loopy necklaces and pins and earrings did little to brighten my corner of the world.

Starting at the whimsical Anthropologie, I didn’t care that the stores are all owned by the same mega company. I didn’t care about free shipping. I tried on bright prints and PINK. I thought I had lived past my pink days. There was a time when I had a next door neighbor with a envious natural sense of style. She dressed me in pink, rose, raspberry. The clothes I tried on would have made her proud. Giddy, I almost went off the rails, falling in love with a bright pink accent chair that I convinced myself would look perfect in front of the bookcase in the living room. Luckily, the chair wouldn’t have fit in my car, a new MINI. I didn’t ask about free shipping.

Now I wake in the mornings and reach for pink. I want the blush of newborn. The velvet of rose petals. There’s nothing gentle about it. My best badass self is alive. I’m good with the thorns. The primal rush of childbirth. The stain pomegranate makes on lips. Muscles and heart and fingertips. Bruising lush sunrise and sunset.