Reds caught a gun charge around the time my deciduous teeth started coming in. My toddler-faced mom — pregnant with Deion — clamped on heavy gold bamboo earrings and clubbed every night.
A plastic bag sat on the top shelf, near the back. It contained large, shiny-white ladies underwear … “Is this a gift for someone, Mom?” I asked. “Oh,” she said. “That’s for my funeral. Make sure you don’t lose it.”
It’s not that pink is inherently bad. I just see pink as the marijuana of colors, the gateway hue to the harder addictions of princess obsession and vanity.