Pink Invasion

"Dude. They're pink." My friend interrupted me after several minutes of my own audible speculation that perhaps my khaki pants appeared to have a light red hue as the result of poor lighting or even my aging eyes. He was right - they were pink. Yet, I continued.

"You only think they are pink because I have biased y-" He interrupted again.

"Dude. Pink." In this case, Dude meant "Shut up while I'm being honest with you" and pink meant "pink." I trusted that my friend, a chemistry professor, knew his colors.

Earlier that day, I ran out of the apartment in my usual flurry of alarm-ignoring, coffee-making, email-reading, cat-feeding, coffee-drinking, bagel-eating, shower-singing, clothes-rummaging, teeth-brushing activity. I skipped down two flights of stairs and into the morning sunlight as I started my ten minute walk to the subway.

Given the speed at which I got ready for work that morning, I wasn't convinced that I had dressed properly for work. A quick self-examination revealed a red button-down shirt, khakis with slightly frayed pant legs and perma-crease from countless meetings with an iron, not-quite-khaki-enough brown socks, and scuffed up Timberlands. I stopped at the street corner.

Are my khakis pink?

They're pink. Or I am overdue for an eye exam? Or is the sunlight reflecting off of my red shirt, creating a pink illusion?

It's an illusion. A pink specter. On my pants.

Ten minutes later as I sat on the subway car, I started obsessing again. I called my girlfriend at the time.

"Did you wash my pants when you were visiting?" I asked.

"Yes, I hope you don't mind," she said cautiously.

I didn't mind, yet. "Did you wash it with anything red?"

"Maybe. After the first wash, it doesn't matter anyways," she said confidently.

"It matters."

"It does?" she queried, now in a tone less confident.

"Yep."

It was about 20 minutes later that I realized how much it mattered as I listened to my friend plainly state "Dude. Pink." It was a phrase that I said to myself all day as I worked in the lab, gave tours of the Center, and walked around the college campus where I worked.

I didn't realize how pertinent this experience was until many years later when the same girlfriend (now my wife) and I had our second child, a daughter. Her birth marked the beginning of an era that I fondly call "The Pink Invasion." Who knew there was enough pink dyes and fabrics in the world to make so many pink onesies, bonnets, and dollies?

Never again will I wear pink khakis, which is why there are now three laundry categories in my house: Whites, Colors, and Pinks. Occasionally, I will unload the washing machine to discover that a pink sock or red shirt had been smuggled in with the khakis. Fortunately, this has never again resulted in an unexpected khaki color transformation.

Please don't get me wrong: I do not mind the color pink and I do not color-discriminate. It's the ambush that causes me anxiety. I feel strongly that I should be able to grab a pair of pants from my dresser drawer and be confident that they are the same color that they were yesterday. But what I fear more than any surprise color change in my wardrobe is the sincerity yet finality of one particular phrase: "Dude. Pink."