Venturing out of sweat pants, I finally put clothes on – jeans that used to fit comfortably, but are now the very model of modern fashion: tight, tight, tight and a sweater long enough to cover the top of my back end, sort of. My son and I made our way to play group.
I usually take compliments in stride: “Oh, I know. Good for you for noticing.” But when Evelyn said, “Polly, you look great in purple,” I didn’t react well.
I try not to think about purple.
For her first child, my dear, dear mother put her degree in fashion merchandizing and a love of corduroy to use and created, what you might call, a professional wardrobe for a kindergartner. It entailed purple corduroy pants, skirt, knickers, vest, and a two button jacket. The shirts: striped and plaid violet in various shades and tones. During this time, I answered to “Polly Purple”.
I’ve avoided the thought of purple ever since. I can wear it. I just can’t acknowledge that I’m wearing it.
Evelyn had no idea a simple compliment would dig up past hue horrors. Not many people have Post Traumatic Color Syndrome.
She grinned. She said, “Sounds like you’re coming to grips with purple.”
“Wacka. Wacka,” I said.
Thanks, Evelyn, for forcing me to face my fear. I am at this very moment looking down at my purple sweater. I have to admit, you’re right, it looks great. They didn’t call me Polly Purple for nothing! Good for you for noticing.