When someone tells me he/she’s moving into a new home, my first question is usually about color. What’s your color scheme? I ask. And maybe this is odd. Or maybe not. I think color matters.
My big girls? Their room is deep purple and bright orange. It’s a happy place. A silly sanctuary scattered with toys and animals – and, yes, oodles of color.
I think what continues to scare me most about adulthood – the territory I’m most certainly treading now – is the idea that I might, if I am not careful, become beige, that prudence and practicality might come to dominate my thinking and my living, that I might lose my punch of color, of youth.
If you’ve seen my home (or my wardrobe, or my nails), you might think I have nothing to worry about. In these areas, color abounds. I hope it stays that way for some time. Always.
But I am also concerned about metaphorical color. About preserving a vibrant host of hues in my ideas, my stories, my choices. It’s easier, I think, to get our nails painted Camera (my latest red/pink summer fave) than it is to prevent the color from fading from our days and our ways. Right?
Oh, and today I’m wearing this Zara loose knit neon scarf with my gray sweater and holed-up jeans… Zesty, no?
Are you colorful in your aesthetic and existential choices? What colors do you have in your home? Do you think I’m being too hard on poor old beige? What if anything about adulthood scares you? Yay or nay on the scarf?