In the year since coming home I have been met by many exclamations of shock at some of the things I’ve been doing. Things that seem to be in utter conflict with the person they thought they knew so well, for so long. It started with the decision to walk away from Health. And then so many other choices that seemed utterly logical to me but in complete contrast to and in conflict with the persona my colleagues and friends knew so well. Comments that could well be summarised as a version of a startled step backwards, eyes wide and an expression of well, strike me pink!
Who would have thought you would be writing business plans in a daisy picture?
I like the floral overalls, fun, but it’s not your usual thing, is it?
I can’t believe you’re on social media!
The plaits are cute…
It surprises me that you like pink, I never would have picked it...
Each time I’ve done a double-take, equally surprised that these dear people did NOT know this about me. I mean, I’ve ALWAYS adored daisies. My first car was called Daisy-Belle! My favourite skirt in High School was a long, layered floral number. I’ve owned these dangly earrings for over 30 years.
I’ve ALWAYS been like this!
Last year my beautiful old friend stayed with me for a weekend. We lived in one another’s pockets in our early 20s, those wonderful days in Canberra when we were single and courageous and tasting everything life had to offer.
At the time I was enamoured with warm, rich tones. Mahogany made me think of the furniture in the houses of the people I read about in far away England; manor houses and wealthy landowners, usually the homes that the characters I loved yearned to live in instead of their far more humble, working class homes. I had white sheets with lace on the pillowcases and a broderie anglaise doona cover and when I finally bought my first bed it was a dark red (mahogany!) stain with wrought iron curving gracefully at head and toe.
Then I met the boy.
He and I set up house and quickly furnished it with the things we already had. When we came to realise that the relationship was long term the choice of furniture took on a far more important weight. Not only would we need to get used to seeing one another when we wake up every morning, we would have to live with these choices for the rest of our lives.
Our first joint purchase was a kitten from the local animal shelter. He was black and white.
We never actually discussed colour. I just made the assumption that my beloved pinks were too feminine for a man to live in comfortably and gradually I phased them out of our lives. Blues and greens made their way into the palette, appropriate for both men and women, pale woods and creamy carpet. Ruffles and lace and broderie anglaise disappeared. We had our children while society around us realised the ubiquitous binary presentation of clothes and toys and, after a flirtation with pink and blue playthings, moved to non-gendered children’s accoutrements.
The colour pink disappeared completely from my world.
And then I hit my 40’s. What can I say? It is written (by every single woman over 40!) that this is the decade of freedom and release. It is a time when we finally learn how to accept ourselves, when we recognise who we are and stop giving a shit about what anyone else thinks about that fact. It is an incredible high. It is another coming home, finding a comfortable place that has been here all along just waiting to be seen and inhabited.
Rosie the car was the beginning. She arrived and it was as if a gateway had been unlocked. Nothing could stop the colour pouring through. I bought rose coloured pillow cases with daisy quilting, pink shoes, pink dresses, pink lipstick. I planted roses in the garden. I brought out the pink crockery I’d saved since Uni days. Even Tallulah is pink!
When my friend visited it felt like a reunion between long-lost family. It had been so long since we’d been able to spend time together (thanks, Covid). We hugged, noted the grey hair style we have both assumed and talked and laughed for hours. She didn’t bat an eyelid at my hippy behaviour or my floral decorations. It made complete sense to her. This is who she had always known me to be. My friend had new glasses, pink ones. Beautiful, soft, classy pink. Talking point pink. “I am completely in love with pink since I let my hair go grey,” she tells me confidently.
Me too!
I started jotting down thoughts for this piece months ago as I experienced these comment of shock. Things that made me reflect and realise just how powerful the willingness to don a professional appearance can be. I’ve often spoken with others about how we turn up to work and put on our work facade, a business face. It’s armour that protects the soft, authentic bits of me from the harsh realities that confront me in what was my ‘real’ world. When I put on my makeup, blow-dried my hair (which takes ages, it’s a serious investment of effort!), pulled on stockings under a structured dress and slid my feet into heels I gradually wrapped the vulnerable bits of me in uniform. At least, that’s the subconscious thought I had. What I was really doing was hiding the person behind a persona. Ugh.
Let’s be fair. It wasn’t just the job. I held all sorts of beliefs about what a mother should look like (and do and say). What ‘someone my age’ should look like. How a professional should speak and act and dress. I was seriously distracted by my idea of everyone else’s opinions… and completely forgot what my own might be!!!
The professional outfits were the first things to fall away when I started working from home during the pandemic. Spending half an hour of my day blowdrying my hair felt like a waste of time. Constraining my waist in fitted corporate gear to sit before a screen showing only my shoulders up was a ridiculous punishment I did not deserve, farewell stockings and welcome back jogger pants.
With every concession to comfort I welcomed back another little part of me.
The culmination of the return was my birthday. You remember it, don’t you? The one where I woke to the original bright pink flamingoes on my balcony welcoming me to a new decade of flocking fabulousness. It was, it seems, the gateway to a gushing fountain of pink.
Ian has been remarkably accepting of this flood of colour into our lives. My early assumption that we needed a shared neutral palette was either completely incorrect or he, too, has aged into an appreciation for joyous abandon. Actually, I think both might be true! He can barely hide his grin when I get ready to hike in a pink Tshirt, pink headband, pink gaiters and, sometimes, pink Olivia warmers on my trekking poles. My beloved pink boots from the dearest of friends are everyday wear with daisy socks and he doesn’t even blink.
The tidal wave of pink has begun to recede back to a manageable level as saturation was reached weeks ago. It’s leaving a reassuring hue of sunrise in my wardrobe, my makeup and our linen. My hair will continue to lighten to grey, there will be no pink. I don’t think I’ll get pink glasses; Ms J, my friend, you rock them so well I could only stand by in poor imitation. I’m much happier looking at yours when we sit together with a glass of wine and and talk and laugh as if we were still in our 20s. The only difference from my point of view is that now when we laugh so much and so hard we need to be near the loo…
Broderie Anglais doona cover…tick. Battenberg Lace tablecloths…tick.
I’ve been a colour girl too Melinda. The decades have seen me move from pink (my 20s), to orange (my 30s) to yellow (40s and now 50s) – but I’ve often looked at women who wear black and been captivated by their chic and classic theme. But when I tried it, I just felt like my mood went down.
I hope that things change in the future for women and men – anyone – that works in business and commerce. A world where heels and ties are no longer uniform. When a person’s work is based on their contribution.
And keep rocking out the pink – it suits you and makes you happy. And that’s all you need!
You’re absolutely right! It’s harmless and makes me happy. How lucky can one be!
I remember doing a ‘colour assessment’ in the mid 1990s. i was told to avoid black and yellow as they made me look sick and didn’t suit my tones. Maybe. But they also make me smile. They have returned to my wardrobe and my world!
Oh, I love this! I ‘gave in’ to the grey when I turned fifty and now delight in breaking all the fashion rules I use to follow (case in point, today I’m wearing a light blue blouse, under a bright orange jumper and purple earrings – I love my clashing, somehow working, palette). It is wonderfully freeing to return to the things we’ve always loved without second-guessing them (just as we did as children).
Do you remember the maxim – blue and green must never be seen???? What on earth was that about? Everywhere I look nature tells me that blue and green must be together, always!