Color-coded Identity

I was always meant to like pink. The kind of pink that makes you think of bunnies, babies, and soft cuddly things. Everything I had were in varying faded shades of coral, fuchsia, or carnation. And that's what I wanted.

Chelsea was always dressed in blue. Rich dark navy hues, brilliant Indian-turquoise, or baby boy blue. She guarded her color jealously too, protecting it from her pink-faced sister who was too embarrassed to ask mom for blue pajamas for Christmas this year. Sometimes when she left the house to hang out with the boys in the park, I would try on her clothes, feeling momentarily bold because I'd shed my pink pink clothes. And my introverted book-worm personality.

Meanwhile, because Chelsea loved blue and Sisi loved pink, my mom would stick to those hues when she went Christmas pajama shopping.

I've since accumulated my fair share of blue. But I still feel slightly guilty when I choose blue over pink in permanent furniture fixtures or wedding color palettes.

I went to Walmart, the day before my freshman year started, to buy some bed sheets and bed spread. I was at the bedding aisle for forty minutes. I was inexplicably drawn to the Tiffany blue and dark chocolate brown comforter. But I felt obligated to the cardboard brown spread with pink carnations splashed haphazardly over it. I finally grabbed the comforter and marched to the registrar.

The lady asked tiredly, "Is this all today Ma'am?"

I paused, chewed my lip and went back and exchanged for those wilted carnations.