On My Aversion to the Color Pink

Read: Pink (A Theory)

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I cannot take myself seriously if my fingernails are freshly polished in some sort of pastel varnish. Especially when there’s glitter involved (somehow I’ve become quite smitten taken with painting all ten digits with a cream color, and then garnishing the index or ring fingers with 1-2 coats of ostentatiously tack-tastic glitter polish, go figure). Pink is the only exception, and even then, my OPI’s  “Mod About You” is questionable regardless of its ability to make me seem a tad bit tanner. Pink, mes chéries, is not to be trusted. Nail polishes are one thing. Should you ever find me dressed in pink, be forewarned! It’s an extremely rare sight, and if you should be so luck—or unlucky, what have you—be cautioned! I am not myself. I made the mistake of donning some fuchsia shift dress, a one-time Easter frock, only to be stared by a sea of shocked peers, ladies and gents a like, mouths agape.

“You’re wearing pink?”

“Is something wrong?”

Oh. I’m hardly being melodramatic.

It’s not that I have a vendetta against pink or pastels. They’re lovely shades: lovely colors against tanned, summer skin, lovely paint for a room, lovely colors of flowers. I simply loathe how childish and impotent I feel with it on. Perhaps it’s some psychological thing where incidents of embarrassment are linked to wearing such colors. That theory, however, holds no ground; I don’t get embarrassed. Period. It’s quite simple. So there goes my only hypothesis.

I’m just not particularly girly. Feminine, yes, but not girly. I don’t fawn over boys, get the butterflies, believe in knights in shining armor, or have my mind (or heart, if we’re to be technical here) set on some noble mission that rests only when true love is found. Neither am I entertained nor amused by romance novels or chick flicks of sorts (case in point: The Notebook is ridiculous, and I’ve always maintained the same perspective as that of the males in He’s Just Not That Into You). I realize the potential in sounding pretention, but alas, it is what it is. It’s not that I don’t appreciate Sex and the City or Love and Other Disasters; both actually rank as some of my all-time favorites. My patience only extends to certain exceptions like the aforementioned. Beyond that, I much prefer a good dose of Sherlock Holmes, The Minority Report, or something that gets my adrenaline rushing.

The most ridiculous thing, then, is this thing that now occupies a hanger in my closet. Hypocritical isn’t it, that I go on a tirade about the color and, somehow, end up with a new addition to my all black-gray-cream wardrobe: a pink blouse from H&M. Not any pink blouse, though. A perfectly girly, frothy, light pink blouse with hearts. And a bow. Please do turn your attention to Exhibit A, courtesy of Photobooth:

I’m not even sure why it caught my attention in the first place. The silhouette of the blouse looks lovely on. But the print. Those hearts. Either I was not in the right state of mind, or it was a subconscious effort at creating a public, ironic statement of my aversion to the color pink and puppy love/romance/sappy things. A sort of inside joke with myself, where I’d laugh with myself whenever I’d wear it. But it’s a sweet little thing, isn’t, it?

But when I am wearing pastel pink varnish and clothing, it’s my lame attempt at sprucing an all-black wardrobe. Or I will have adopted an entirely different persona. Perhaps it’s an alter ego, or my brain’s way of forcing me to get in touch with my girly side. I suppose it is entertaining at times to giggle and gossip over a certain [dancer] boy. Refreshing even, to not be so serious all the time.

One week’s the limit. The fuchsia eyelet frock is intentionally buried to remain unfounded eternally, and out comes the nail polish remover, wads of cotton puffs, and “You Don’t Know Jacques” armed at the ready. Because once I’ve slipped into my uniform of black—bandage skirts, a semi-sheer blouse, and pumps—equilibrium in the universe has been restored.

You know I mean business then.

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