In The Pink: Another Apron

I’m In The Pink.

This pink  apron was made from two abandoned projects and an unpopular dress, in basically the same way that I’ve made other aprons. My favorite part:  The sheer, sequined fabric on the bottom.  It lay forgotten in my stash for just about forever. The apron could work as a skirt, if I wore skirts that short (which I don’t, unless I’m going swimming), because I made it wrap rather than tie in the back. Covering up my mistake of making it too big to tie snug.

At my house, pink is really not cool.

Even if I point out that “being in the pink” can be metaphorical and not literal. Apparently, amongst the upcoming feminine generation in my family (aka my girls, and some of their cousins), pink carries some sort of negative stigma. When she was twelve (a most astute age), Maurya tried to explain it to me:

“Mom, Barbie wears pink!”

Maurya as Garage Sale Fodder Barbie for Halloween.

I was ashamed to tell her that I still had Barbie cravings, that at Christmas shopping time, I  stall in Target’s Barbie aisle, wishing…I know not what for.  Because like my mother, I don’t really approve of Barbies—though one Christmas (my seventh, I think), Mom did allow a Marie Osmond doll, oddly enough–upon which I immediately drew longer eyelashes (reaching to the top of her forehead) with a ballpoint pen; the lashes turned a deep grey-purple the first time I washed her face. Which may be why I prefer pink to purple now. I played with Barbies at my cousin’s house whenever I got the chance, while my sister Leah busily climbed trees, mastered football, and wrestled boys. No lie: by the time we were in high school, she could out arm wrestle both the star pitcher of our high school baseball team (a sweet boy named Rob…perhaps he let her win? I’m remembering he crushed on her) and the tall, burly football mascot (another nice kid with a name perfect for the Mustangs mascot: Fred Snodgrass…which name,at first, I thought was a clever alias, but no, it really was his name).

I digress. In the pink. Right.

Maybe, subconsciously, my girls sense the chasm between my sister’s adventurousness and my own pedestrian longings for a girly doll I never had. Well, then I guess I’m proud. If I haven’t quite reached the pinnacle of my own feminist aspirations, perhaps they will.

Meanwhile.

I tell my girls that pink doesn’t have to mean the objectification of women via peroxide blonde bubble gum bling plastic…pink is the color of roses, and dianthus, and apple blossoms. It’s NATURAL, I tell them. It is the color of health and blushing and the mountains at sunset. One of the most natural colors there is! Sometimes I think some of their hearts may be softening. While Michaelyn is appalled at the very mention of pink,  and Meisha refuses to be cajoled into it in any form other than peach, Maurya has a pale pink blouse that she wears…about twice a year.   She’ll also, occasionally, wear my mother’s pink dress.  And Nora, also comfortable with peach, just outgrew a favorite coat in fuschia this year, and still wears her favorite fuschia dress. But she’s pretty convinced that fuschia really is just a variation of red. A stronger, more assertive color. Not really pink.

In the end, I’m not ashamed of my pink apron.  I’ll wear it proudly, supported by my panful of burnt cookies.

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