Friday, August 13, 2004

Look at the stars, see how they shine for you... At the moment I'm really into the colour yellow. Only bright yellow like a taxi, not orangey yellow like a road sign. When I was in grade six I used to fancy that pale lemon was a flattering colour on me (someone probably told me so!), but later I took on the colour preferences of Christopher from The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time: I really liked red and hated yellow and brown. At the moment my favourite colour by far is pink. I have a little rule: if you can't decide between colours, get the pink.

But on Saturday I was in Target, ostensibly purchasing 'exercise wear' for my latest exercise kick (god help me!), and I bought three singlets: black, hot pink (nothing new there), and a lurid bright lemon colour. It is even more lurid than my sneakers, which you may recall Gemma referred to as "very Uma Thurman". And for some reason I thought that this colour would look really good with pearls. It clashes horribly with my hair. (Dougie, bless him, wears this yellow t-shirt that clashes in the most abominable way with his hair. Hi Dougie if you're reading this.)

Anyway, today I am wearing a pale aqua-blue puffed-sleeve blouse with white lace trim and pearl buttons, under the yellow singlet, with a black knee-length skirt, black footless tights and my yellow Converse sneakers. I have a bracelet of two rows of pearls the size of marbles, with another chunky pearl necklace and pearl earrings. And my white parka, which in Penny's eyes last week ludicrously qualified me to look "hip-hop". Penny used to pronounce fashion 'looks': Saige, for example, did "military Mao" for a while last year, about the same time that I was doing "preppy Flashdance". I would classify my look today as "80s High School Movie".

My mother would be horrified, of course, because I am wearing sneakers with skirts, one of her key criteria for being unable to "get a man". But seriously, the fact that the yellow clashes with my hair made me think again, resentfully, of the refrain I hear so many times from so many guys, "I prefer brunettes." I have never heard one male friend or acquaintance tell me he likes to date blondes, and I hate it. It's not like I dye my hair blonde - I was born that way! It makes me feel genetically rejected - would I have to dye my hair brown to get any action in this town?

This kind of moping seems to be a meme right now, as Agent FareEvader is demonstrating. Tragically, while he's moaning about being unable to score cos he's "baby-faced", I'm all depressed about being left on the shelf cos I'm turning 27 on Sunday. (And please, spare me the Luke Skywalker jokes.)

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