“Caroline laughs and it’s raining all day and she loves to be one of the girls.
She lives in the place in the side of our lives where nothing is ever put straight”
I’ve always loved the color pink. Shades of youth and femininity, bleeding together with splashes of rage and desire. Pretty. Although I’ve always been smart, it’s better to be pretty. It’s easier to hide behind the fallacy of beauty, because it’s something that you can buy.
When I walked out of the grey-streaked angst of my early 20’s, I brought pink with me. Pink like Molly Ringwald danced to, in the prom dress she sewed herself. Pink became my signature. My calling card.
Pink pinstriped button-down shirts. Pink stilettos. Pink headbands. Pink suede pants (nope, not kidding).
“She loses herself in her dreaming and sleep and her lovers walk through in their coats she’s….
pretty in pink”
Life is easier when it’s set to a soundtrack. Life makes sense when you think you’re Molly Ringwald. A little edgy, a little lovestruck, happily misunderstood. Driving off into the darkness of my adolescent night, I was comforted by the gritty chorus that stoked the flames of my own rebellion.
I thought that pink would soothe me. I figured that if I smiled enough and wrapped myself in matching accessories, I could glide through my 20’s unscathed. I covered up my college degree with pink tank tops. I hid the hatred that I had for my body with pink nail polish. I bought pink shoes that peeked from the bottoms of perfectly tailored pants, to make the point that I was hiding something beautiful. Pink was feminine and conservative. Pink was nice. Pink was Stepford. And Stepford was perfect. Perfect in pink.
Until it wasn’t.
“Hey Miss Kim” the Sergeant whispered, blocking the door to my office. “Are your panties pink?”
“Heeeeey Mama!” they yelled. “You, in the pink shoes! You a lady cop?”
You can’t do pink in the police department. When you stand in front of a room of 85 cops, pink bracelets do not protect you. They see your pink stilettos and they take off your pants with their eyes.
“all of her loves all talk of the notes and the flowers that they never sent
and wasn’t she easy? and isn’t she pretty in pink?”
Pink was slutty. Pink was disgusting. Pink was exposed.
So pink dissapeared. Replaced by white, grey, black. Plain, grown-up colors. Safe colors. Colors that helped me to blend into oblivion, to go unnoticed.
And then Sean walked into the restaurant bar, in cream-colored linen slacks. Silver sports car. Gold-flecked eyes.
I wore pink stilettos underneath my wedding dress. Molly Ringwald sang back-up while a makeup artist swiped pink gloss on the lips that would greet my husband. Pink was perfect. Pink was mine.
“Caroline talks to you softly sometimes she says “I love you,” and “too much.” she doesn’t have anything you want to steal well, nothing you can touch…”