I love those people who can read your aura, and tell you what state of karmic being you have attained by the color haloing your body. I can never remember the color of my aura six minutes after being told what it is, but still, there is something soothing about knowing that one emits a color, even if most of our friends can't see it.

I have been paying attention to what colors I am choosing to emit these days with what I am wearing. Because of all the time on the road, rather than throw on any old thing that is hanging at the front of the closet (and that happens to still fit, ahem...let's not discuss high calorie, high sugar, airport snacks) I have to plan ahead for days and days of wardrobe. This means I've been wearing a lot of black. Weeks and weeks of black. Packable, versatile, forgiving, give-me-my-space, back-off black.

And I'm sick of it. I know, it is the color of choice in the fashion world. But it gets me down. Actually, I'm already down, with bronchial issues, exhaustion, you name it. I am now choosing my wardrobe with an eye to...bedtime. A longing, as the alarm clock buzzes, to crawl back under the covers. A yearning, as lunchtime hovers, to make a nest of down and wool and cotton, and burrow into it.

And what, you wonder, is the well-dressed sleepyhead wearing these days? Pink.  What is this about? There's something soothing about the color, and something regressive, too. I was a little princess who loved pink, and wanted to wear it all the time. I was beyond envious of my sister's pink ballet slippers (I was deemed too gawky to take ballet.)

I seem to be drawing pink toward me--my birthday flowers from the inimitable Zeze and Peggy were pink. As the blooms aged and grew decrepit, the pink grew more adamantly pink.

The ribbon swirling through the blossoms was ballet slipper pink.

Then my mother gave me a beautiful pink nightie--the kind of thing that you would put on a baby, except in a much larger size-- just what I needed. It is indeed the case that I was never so well-dressed (as my mother would tell you) as when she chose my clothing for me, a condition which probably ended by the time I was in high school, to her eternal regret.

I even started regressing in my bedtime reading, and was delighted to see that my dazzling new book of fairy tales from Taschen looks great with my linen sheets. (Though I wish they had dispensed with the glossy gold leaves introducing each tale, with the kind of bunkum no child can stand for long: "Hair symbolizes power and attractiveness in many cultures," introducing Rapunzel. Hello? Hair got Rapunzel into boatloads of trouble. "...the wolf has been a symbol of danger for thousands of years..." Hello? Wolves are dangerous. Wildly, terrifyingly, hauntingly dangerous. They eat creatures like Rapunzels and Hansels. Oh dear. Clearly my aura is not yet pink.)

And, pink nightgowns and green sheets? Perfect. Yawn. I've even found a lovely, elegant new blog (for me) called Under a Pink Moon.

I'm reading Winnie the Pooh over again too, taking new delight in so many of Milne's turns of phrases. Edward Bear doing his "Stoutness Exercises"...the Hunny jar that becomes a "Useful Pot to Keep Things In"...the "wobbly spelling "Hipy Papy Bthuthdth Thuthda Bthutdy"..."I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget." Don't we all know that feeling?

And my favorite, that old beloved donkey, Eeyore: "Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, 'Why?' and sometimes he thought, 'Wherefore?' and sometimes he thought, 'Inasmuch as which?'--and sometimes he didn't quite know what he was thinking about." Eeyore must have grown up to be a lawyer. "'Good morning, Pooh Bear,' said Eeyore gloomily. 'If it is a good morning,' he said. 'Which I doubt,' he said." [Sound like any teenagers we know?] And how are you, Pooh asks Eeyore..."'Not very how,' he said. 'I don't seem to have felt at all how for a long time.'"

I might as well start sucking my thumb, I'm already rubbing the satin edge of my blanket against the side of my finger. But these are just the books to pink me up. If I had teenagers in the house, I would call a family meeting to order, and each of us would take a turn reading a chapter out loud. I wish I had thought of that then...

Pink is, as one decorator told me about his pink-walled dining room, so kind to the skin. This same man told me, when I wondered why all the master bedrooms he designed were so feminine, frilly, and frankly pink...didn't his client's husbands have a problem with all that pink? Darling, he said, you know all men want to crawl into bed with mommy.

Sure thing. Well, this mommy's crawling into bed as soon as she can. Pretty exhausted, in pink. There comes a time in every woman's life when she simply has to baby herself.

No comments: