When did I become the girl in pink?
I look down at the outfit I am wearing and I see I am in top-to-toe pink, all the way down to the skin. Not baby pink, I do hasten to point out. Rather, a vibrant pink, an ironic pink, but still. Pink. And I wonder; where did the tomboy goth go? How did I become so comfortable in three inch heels? It’s happened so gradually over the recent years, I couldn’t pin my finger on the point it started, but I have become the girl in pink, perfectly happy in 3 and 4 inch heels. Certainly a few years ago, this wasn’t the case.
I have got to the point that people comment when I wear mostly black, let alone all black. To be fair, I never made a very good goth – I’m far too bubbly, and I am cursed with an English Rose complection, so I just can’t pull off pale-and-interesting – but… well, I look around at the people I spent time with at the weekend, and I am far and away the most colourful of them. Where did she come from, this girl in her mid-twenties who can pull off a creditable Miss MoneyPenny impression at the office. I like her, this person. She’s beautiful. But sometimes she scares me too.
Because on the inside I’m still not sure she real. Parents complain that children grow up too fast – hell! I’m looking round wondering how I got to be mid/late twenties all of a sudden! It’s like I sleepwalked through that transistion from child/teenager to grown-up, and I feel like a fraud in my adult clothing.
A damn cute fraud in gorgeous shoes though.