I can't say that I've
never been a fan of the color pink. When I was really small, I was a very girlie girl. But once I discovered Wonder Woman, all that pretty princess stuff more or less dissolved in my world. I soon developed a loathing for pink**. By the time I was 13, it made me psychotically angry, mainly because of the behaviors associated with it—girls dumbing themselves down and acting cutesy so boys would like them, that kind of rot. It seemed childish at best, and even at that tender age I sensed the inherent emotional damage that Egregious Pinkness could cause.
(And now that's got me wanting to listen to British symthpop...)
Flash forward to 2009; I turned 40 and my boob tried to kill me. While I'm grateful my type of cancer was imminently curable, I have to laugh and roll my eyes at Fate's sense of humor. I'm forever saddled with The Dreaded Pinkness.
And now we're midway through October and it's a little bittersweet. See, it's my favorite month for many reasons. Autumn is my favorite season—I love to see the world in transition. It's ablaze with color, and you feel the earth actively preparing to slumber and recover, encouraging us to do the same. It always makes me homesick, though, as Texas autumn is nothing like Michigan autumn. It's not bad. It's just not as evocative for me. Of course, I also love Halloween. It's an eldritch time of year, and this makes my inner Goth girlie squeeble in a very un-Goth-like fashion.
Of course, October is also Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
Damn you, pink! You've invaded my reds, golds, and russets with your... pinky pinkness. Gah!