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This is bad news for me as I stopped liking pink when I was in the fifth grade. By that time in my life, a combination of demographic oddities, alternative schooling options and far-flung parental employment opportunities had conspired to make me one of only three girls in my class. And when you're ten and the only choices for female companionship are the gung-ho Girl Scout who's working on that elusive Social Engineering merit badge and the quiet girl who only talks on Tuesday mornings, you learn quickly how to live hard and mix it up with the boys. And unless you want to spend every recess for the rest of your grade school life (read: forever) being pelted with live caterpillars, pink clothing is just not an option.

I know, I know. It's been a long time since then. Still, pink to me is at best a color associated with a lost age of innocence, at worst a symbol of wimpy girlhood. Besides, most shades of pink just look really crappy on me. The forced purchase of a whole miniature pink wardrobe allowed me to reexamine these deeply ingrained prejudices and gave me the opportunity to grow as a person. At least that's how I justified it to my astonished credit card, which suffered a mild fainting spell.
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