A Woman's Guide to the Good and Evil Sides of Pink

IN THE PINK
As a little girl, I wore pink on a regular basis, yet I thought it was dumb to have it as my favorite color. Perhaps my refusal to hold it so dear to my heart had a hint of rebellion behind it -- I was a tomboy. My first heroine was not some character in a pink dress from a Jane Austen book, Laura Ingalls, Marcia Brady, or countless other examples of prissy girls whose idea of a good time was braiding each other's hair while watching romantic comedies and waiting for the bell on the Easy-Bake Oven to ding. When I saw a girl like that, whether in person or on TV, the electrical impulses in my brain didn't even bother to send messages to each other; they just took some down-time, filed their nails, grabbed a quick nap, knitted a scarf, etc. I am sure I would have been the first person to actually die of boredom if I had to associate with those types of girls on a daily basis.

TICKLED PINK
Somewhere around the time I was eight or nine, I was watching Happy Days, one of my favorite childhood sit-coms. A beautiful woman clad in a pink leather outfit and stiletto boots walked into Al's Diner. Her name was Pinky Tuscadero. I stood up from the sofa, dropped my Little Debbie Swiss Roll (which I still regret), pointed at Pinky and exclaimed, "That's it! That's it!" The electrical impulses in my brain threw down their home-woven handicrafts, hopped on their exercise bikes, and took a three-hour spinning class. There stood the picture of what I had always felt a girl should be: beautiful but not uber-prissy, tough but not brash, stylish but not high-maintenance. Of course, in my young mind I had not consciously articulated these thoughts, but they were there, waiting to be labeled. Overall, I didn't harbor any hostility toward pink. After all, my heroine had the color in her name and all over her body. I think her hair was even pink. I hope my general acceptance of the color as a child and as an adult lends credibility when I state that......

PINK IS EVIL!
Hear me out, O Thou Protectors of Pink. I'm only putting pink in the "Evil" file in one instance, and this may be hard for some of you to swallow (pun intended). Ready? I speak of white zinfandel. I'm sure there's a collective gasp among many of you, but there are others out there who are giving virtual high fives. To those in the latter group, I am high-fiving you back; to those in the former group, please indulge me just a little longer as I only have your best interests, but especially the interests of the sisterhood, at heart. Although I was a psychology major, I still haven't figured out what makes even the most reasonable of women ask for this waste-of-a-wonderful-grape concoction. Perhaps the reason women (and the occasional eunuch) order white zinfandel is due the wreck that occurs when you mix pride with ignorance.

PINK ABOUT THIS
I say "pride" because we're afraid to look like we don't know something. Who doesn't like to be "in the know"? You may find yourself in a nice restaurant or at an after-hours mixer for "busy professionals", where you are faced with several beverage choices. You have the general impression that wine is more sophisticated than beer. After all, it was the nectar of the gods, and if anyone knows what's sophisticated, those guys did, right? One glance around the room reveals that most people are having wine. You've found yourself in these situations before, and you know the safest bet for you is that sweet, pink wine you first had at your cousin Vicki's bachelorette party. It's palatable to you, because it's not too dry or acidic; it's sweet. It's Welch's grape juice for grown-ups!

I use the word "ignorance" because we can be too lazy to branch out on our own. We don't investigate something further because we've found it easy to deal with things the way they have always been, without ever giving ourselves the opportunity to find out what wonderful things might be out there. In other words, we just go with the flow. But who has ever accomplished anything great by "going with the flow"? [Well, perhaps someone who studied aerodynamics of boats traveling downstream. Yea, maybe that guy did.]

So, how do you rid yourself of pride and ignorance while maintaining your ego and standing firm in your refusal to add to your database of knowledge through a self-propelled quest for academic excellence? Go back to the scene of the restaurant. Decide what you'll have for dinner first, then ask the sommelier (or as they say in France, the "sommelier") which wine he would recommend for your dish. In fact, at nicer restaurants, the server usually knows which wines the chef recommends with his dishes. I promise that with the proper wine, your food will taste five times as delicious.

THE PINKS AND THE BLUES
[Cue the melodramatic music.] My eyes fill with tears, and my stomach wrenches with a gnawing pain. I feel a despair that surpasses words. My throat feels like it is closing, and my heart rapidly beats in a panic. [You can stop the music.] This is my reaction to the senseless violence that occurs when a single zinfandel grape is plucked from the vine for the purpose of producing the bleached sugar water called white zinfandel. That poor, innocent grape's dignity is being stripped from and it and trampled on the earth beneath. Would you buy a Prada purse to use as a trashcan? Would you spend $400 on a beautiful blouse to use as a dish rag? Would you use your best china as a Frisbee? Then why participate in the destruction of a single zinfandel grape? This is not meant to be a wine review, so I will not try to convince you of how wonderful REAL zinfandel is. However, I want all ladies out there to know that whenever you lift a glass of the pink to your lips, I'll be blue.