Yesterday I bought myself an uncharacteristically pink jumper.
I am not really a pink person. I can probably count on one hand the number of pink items in my wardrobe, and they are all varying versions of “nude”. ‘Girlie‘ isn’t really my style, partly because I was raised to think ‘girlie’ was a synonym for ‘simpering halfwit’ and partly because now that I know that’s not the case I feel… unworthy. Floral, ruffled, pink things with bows are for delicate, graceful butterfly people who can braid their own hair and wear white without getting stained in the first five minutes, not galloping whirlwinds of disaster who wear black to disguise the mess and faceplant in public places with startling frequency.
I usually stick to jeans and white/grey/black because anything more complicated than that necessitates the intervention of people like Olga.
And we know how that turned out…*
Yesterday I spent the afternoon with a good friend, an old friend, a friend who time and circumstance has distanced from me. She now lives on the other side of the world, and has a husband and a baby and a life that I barely know. We talk, but I miss her. I see her over skype, but I miss her. When I walk into Penneys, I don’t have her there to tell me that I definitely need those fifteen things that I definitely don’t need. When I go to Butlers and get a free chocolate with my coffee, it tastes a little less sweet for not having her there with me.
So it was strange seeing her again after three years; I felt distressed about missing so many of her milestones, but delighted to have her back again. The emotional tumble-dryer in the pit of my stomach propelled me into a shop, where I blindly walked the aisles trying to sort out my feelings.
In Penneys I spotted the aforementioned pink jumper. This shapeless chenille cloud the shade of mass-produced raspberry sorbet made me smile. I tried it on and looked in the mirror. I looked like a fuchsia version of Violet Beauregarde from Willy Wonka.
It made me smile.
I bought the ludicrously bright jumper, and it kept me smiling all through the day. Even after I realised that it was leaving a fine but determined dusting of pink fluff all over my black jeans. Even after I realised that the fluff was relentless and probably uncontrollable. Even after I met up with Scrubs and his eyebrows shot up into his hairline.
“That’s… bright,” he said. He side-eyed it, probably worried that looking at it straight on might strike him blind. “You look like a marshmallow.”
I looked down at myself and plucked at the hem. “I think I look like a raspberry.”
Scrubs nodded slowly, considering this comparison.
“Mmm,” he eventually said. “Maybe a raspberry marshmallow…”
That made me smile too. I handed over €10 for a jumper that is high-visibility enough to be used for cycling on country roads, and that ridiculous purchase lifted my mood through the rest of the day. I guess that’s why they call it retail therapy. Sometimes all you need is a break from routine, even if that’s as banal or minor as reaching for a pink jumper instead of yet another grey one.
Sometimes all you need is some time as a happy raspberry marshmallow.
*TL;DR: surprisingly well, actually!