To be perfectly honest, it just isn’t a color that appeals to me. I feel the same way about yellow and grey. Not for me.
My middle son actually only knew 9 of 10 colors on his kindergarten pre-evaluation. “I couldn’t remember grey,” he told me.
“Don’t worry about it, bud. It’s a boring color,” I told him.
But, back to pink.
Yes, sunrises and Hubba Bubba are awesome things, but other pink things, blah. As a tomboy, it kills me to walk down the girls’ toy aisle and be bombarded with pink. Really Hasbro and Mattel, there are other cool colors.
I know this feeling started as a child and I have evidence. See this pink sweater? Inside is an embroidered tag that says, “Made Especially For You by Marjorie W—.” My grandmother. This was probably a birthday or Christmas present for me when I was about 7 years old. And it wasn’t the first. Previous to this one, there had been an entire series of hand knit pink cardigans.
I HATED WEARING EVERY SINGLE ONE.
To this day, I can remember fighting with my mother about them. “Please, just wear it for a picture to send to your Grama,” she would beg. I would scowl and frown. She would offer me a dollar just to pose for that picture, and back in the 70s, a dollar was big time! I’m sure there were tears and rolling-on-the-ground kind of fits. Ridiculous, right. But I just dare you to try and make me wear pink.
At some point in my wise childhood, I had had enough and I wrote a letter to my grandmother explaining to her that I didn’t like pink and requested that she never knit me another pink one.
Guess what? She never knit me another sweater. Ever. Oh, I received plenty of socks, hats, mittens and scarves over the years. She even sent beautiful baby blankets for my own children. But never another hand knit sweater.
So as my own daughter grew up, the sweater reappeared in a box from my mother. Of course I recognized it. I didn’t fight it this time. Instead, I just slipped it into my daughter’s drawer. She may have glanced at it a few times, but never picked it to wear either. And then after occupying the drawer for a few years, it was too small.
I stared at it in the ‘too small’ pile in the corner of the hallway for a couple of days. My grandmother had since passed away. Should I keep it I wondered? And I wondered on the guilt some more. And some more.
In the end, I decided that since there is no genetic inclination towards pink knit cardigans from either my daughter or me, that the best thing to do would be to pass it on. I have many other physical remembrances from my grandmother and someone else might as well wear it and love it instead of letting it sit hopeful in a box for the next generation.
But at the last minute I did snap a picture just to remember it for always. Love you, Grama.