Since when did pink become ridiculous?
Since last week, when I bought this pair of walking shoes.
No offense to pink, it is a beautiful color, it is the color of many lovely flowers, butterflies, and other wonders of creation, but when someone my age wears it, well . . . you may finish that sentence.
I wore it the next day and my walk was, pun intended, in the pink of health! I walked more briskly, with more vigor. As I was wearing my camouflage—a hat and loose sweat shirt—nobody even looked twice, not the sleepy kids inside school buses, not their newly- awaken drivers, not the newspaper man in a bike, nor the early fellow walkers whose mind were still in dreamland.
(The thought that my age and my taste in colors are unmatched is called ageism. Have a turned into an ageist?)
Colors perk me up. Our greatest art Master created all the colors of the rainbow and painted nature with them. I like gardens, homes, and surroundings with gay profusion of colors.
This cascades down to my walking shoes. My first pair was a daring red. When it fell apart from overuse, I bought a new pair in the same color. But that was twelve years ago, long before I became a senior. I have had in-between decent pairs (a black and a white) for those rainy days when I have to hurdle water pools or when I join a group walk.
But for my individual walk, I bought a yellow pair three years ago (which by then had become outrageous for one like me), and recently, this new buy—a continuing lunacy. I am thinking of buying a screaming orange next. Or maybe a screeching chartreuse.
Try walking with the brightest of colors on early mornings. The grace of dawn will brighten your step.