I like to match.

8 Jul

In my home, clashing is verboten. My mother brought me up to be obsessed with matching. Pink with brown, not black. Pink with red, the cardinal sin. (I think this was brought on by her mother, who bugs me if I don’t wear pantyhose because it’s not “ladylike.”). For that reason, when I was about three, I woke up in the middle of the night, bawling:

“Mooooom, I’m wearing pink pajamas with a red barrette.” And the tears poured.

Although my lack of sleep does, I’m sure, cause me to be less precise when putting clothing together, it seems I haven’t changed much. Following yesterday’s beach trip and painful sunburn, I am now matching my skin to my shirt:

My face is as red as my shirt

My face is as red as my shirt

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