Feeling Pink

Woke up this morning thinking about pink. The sort of sickly color, like Peptol Bismol. Like the color of the skirt that I bought the other day. But I like this skirt. It is covered in women wearing hats, walking dogs, having tea. Women.

Because it has been too long since my last Marshall's spree, or shopping experience of any kind for myself, finding something to wear with my pink, lovey skirt proves challenging.

Brown stockings. Black stockings. Bright green stockings. And on top. A sweater that my mother-in-law brought as gift from Spain. Or a hand-me-down from my sister. My friend's sister. Every thing in wardrobe green and brown. Red for summer and white. But white isn't color. And black does not make me feel the way that I want to feel.

So I settle on green. Pilling. Sleeves slightly short from imprudent tumble in dryer. Pink Peptol Bismol with bright green stockings.

Three pairs of shoes to choose from. Brown clogs (for everymother), red shoes that are not as cool as they think they are. Bulky Sorels from days spent living in Utah, Colorado under much snowfall. Happy to have them for this Gloucester winter, for walking to the bar.

I choose red.

I look in the mirror. I'm a sight, but I'm not going to do anything about it. I look at my three-year-old in her stripes, stripes and stripes. She wakes up, sometimes, wanting to dress like the sky. Or a rainbow. Or a flower. And I think--Why do I have to be three to dress how I want to dress. Why does it matter?

I look at Aidan and try to ignore my desire to shed my skin, to wear brown. To hide.

Aidan, not doing anything, gives me what I need.

Skirt with women wafting pink, I leave the house.