The house I spent the first 18 years of my life in was pink, and oh how I loved that thing. I should backtrack because it was pink for the first 16 years of my life until my parents finally realized we would need to sell it in the near future, and no one, but us, would want a pink house. Then, it was gray.
I didn’t grow up in a coastal town, so it was hardly the norm, and therefore I cherished in the fact that I had a pink house. No one else in my class could say the same, and I loved seeing everyone’s face when I would tell them it was pink.
To this day, my eyes light up when I see a lone pink house in a neighborhood of bricks, but I can’t say my dream house shares the same hue as my first.
Lately though, I have been so drawn to pops of pink in homes. A surprising salmon door or a lone wall painted the shade of fresh ballerina slippers. Maybe it’s because I’m about to move in with Josh, so I’m longing for some semblance of femininity to include in our new abode.
Regardless of the source of my pink dreams, I believe this itch won’t go away until it’s scratched. We won’t know if there will be space for my own office come May, but even if I have a tiny closet tucked away in the corner of the house, mark my words, there will be pink.