My Pink Flag

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Think Pink and all that…

I am a “winter” in the color charts which means that by law I am required to wear vibrant bold colors, not the pink which would demonstrate my awareness of breast cancer and my corresponding support of those who have been stricken. 

Pink is for “summers”, so as a “winter” I kind of dread fall because of pink. The enforcers of the color season chart laws are the fashion police. I believe they hail from Glamour Magazine University and Penitentiary.

Punishment for violation is not the monetary fine a street cop would issue. Instead, and much more ruthless, you garner their scorn. The fashion police might cover your eyes with black tape to conceal your identity, photograph you in your humiliation, and still worse— publish it, thus laying your sins to bear in public, thereby exposing you to ridicule. 

That, or they hurl passive aggressive insults regarding the way wearing the wrong color washes out your complexion. These insults are disguised as concern, and they are aimed directly at your soft parts: “You look tired”, “Are you sick?” or “Out late drinking last night?”  

In order to avoid arming these “f (ashion) cops” with ammunition, I typically avoid wearing pink, but my midlife crisis, combined with my passion for sticking it to the man will no longer allow me to be kowtowed by glamorous people. As I said, this is October, so rebellious hellion that I am, I put on my big girl pants and stopped at a craft store on my way home from work to pick up some pink fabric dye…crazy I know.

I found the box of Rit- light pink, (2 boxes actually, because I don’t do anything half way), and headed to the check out counter—

YH– (young hipster guy working the counter): “Hello”

Me: (feeling a rush of power and adrenaline at my decision to purchase pink dye): “Hi how are you tonight.”

YH: (looks at me long and hard, and decides to purge) “Actually, not good. My co-worker just threw something at me, and it hit me in the ear really hard… fucking hard! And he didn’t even say he was sorry. Oh shit, sorry. You don’t even care.”

Me: (mothering instincts kick in when I see that the disgusting spacer in his ear is red and angry) “No, that’s okay, I can see its red.”

YH: (tearing up at my compassion) “I’m really pissed. I can’t fucking believe he did that… Sorry…You look really cute. Really put together. Classy.”

Me: (Sold! Flattery will get you everywhere.)  “Thank you.”

YH: “He just fucking whipped it at me, you know…I can’t fucking believe it!

Me:  (I speak young hipster fluently) “That really sucks.”

YH: “I’m pissed. Okay, well thanks for letting me vent.”

Me: “No problem. Hope your night improves.”

YH: (indistinguishable guttural sound similar to anguish)

Me: (Why didn’t he comment on my two items?)

I leave. I’m free…and I have pink! I skip to my car and head home. I pull out a giant stainless steal pot, all my discolored white clothes, and go to town. I’ve already wasted half the month being vibrant. Tomorrow, my pink freak flag will fly. 

The Daily Post, October 16, 2015, Daily Prompt: FAQ~ Interview someone — a friend, another blogger, your mother, the mailman — and write a post based on their responses.<a href=””>FAQ</a><a href=””>FAQ</a&gt;

3 thoughts on “My Pink Flag

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