I decided to spring clean my den. Out with the old, in with the new. The colors were starting to look a lot like that season coming up, that F word, that four-letter word, f..., f.... I can't even bring myself to say it. Since spring is about to burst in my Southern home, a spring cleaning it is at Casa Dita.
But these colors, these other templates, really... I'm the lady in red, I'm the one who wears black. Black or colors. Pastel colors I leave to blondes. What does one even have to do with the other, what I paint my den or what I decide or decline to wear? Some colors, things, or whatever are me and some categorically aren't. Because I say so? Because I think so? Because I'm absolutely convinced it is so and some fashionista would agree?
(My mom surprised me with a day at a day spa once, complete with a color analysis. Guess what season I was? F... You know, the one coming up. Autumn. Let's use another dialect and call it something more poetic and say autumn.)
How often do we consciously stop to think about all the ways in which we are programmed to function? The ways in which we ourselves have determined what and who we are? All the things we've picked up on the way, willingly or unwittingly, and decided this is me? The one who does/speaks/reads/avoids/studies/lives out or rages against this and that and the other because it says something essential about what we're about. Maybe it does. And maybe it's only a comfort zone, and not a very safe haven at that, only what we are used to, what we know best and draw comfort from when the alternatives look strange and forbidding.
I still don't think I look pretty in pink. But it's not poor pink's fault or problem, only mine.
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