Orange gives me life. If it was a person, I’d give it my gratitude. But as it is part of a larger whole, the color spectrum, I begin to feel thankful for that and prisms. They disperse light. We’re here to emit our own. How to get mine out, is my issue and why rainbows taunt. My gut responds, “In there is you.” What that means is unclear until a particular day, walking down the street, I’m stopped by a stranger’s pointing finger.
“Tell me you’re a funeral director, I’ll shut my mouth. In my eyes you look dreadful.” She reads me like a sign. I’m at odds with myself and unsure why. “Shame on you. You’re committing a crime, burying yourself alive in that navy, black and gray. You’re wearing a shroud. “
Then I get the real shocker. “In no aspect do you look alive. When you’re worthy of full exposure. You’re golden. Your skin, eyes and teeth are yellow. I can spot an autumn anywhere. I’m a Color Me Beautiful expert. People pay big bucks to hear what I’m giving you for nothing.”
Wishing her to continue, I give her a hug. She pats both shoulders and whispers, “Orange” and disappears.
As if in a trance, I do her bidding. I throw everything out of my closet, drawers, my hat boxes, even my silver adornments. Then something happens. The hyperactivity inside my head comes to a halt. What am I doing differently? I get it. I’m concentrating on a singular focus; the many shades of orange. From fresh orange, burnt orange, blaze orange, carrot orange, peachy orange, yellow orange, tangerine, safety orange, goldenrod and vermillion. I’m flying high with excitement. I get this idea. My instincts have to take me shopping, because what I’m going to do is wear my emotions.
There hanging on a rack is a curly lamb jacket. I laugh hysterically, put it on, buy it and go out the door. Greeted with a flurry of shouts, I’m surprised and disconcerted. “Hey there. Big Bird.” Those sillies. “I’m in sunrise orange. That anthropomorphic canary’s in bright yellow.” But I’m more welcoming when a guy puts his microphone close to my face wanting to know my thoughts on new year’s resolutions. “I’m against them.” That’s all I say. He speaks to me for another twenty minutes. I get 31 seconds of air-time on the David Letterman Show.
This exposure ignites my creative juices. I buy a bright orange boa. It’s portable. It’s versatile. It goes with everything. This new accessory lands my photo on the blog “Advanced Style.” In this instance, “Advanced” means the wearer’s old. More precise, I’m “early elderly,” 75. Each breath moves me forward, straight to the Whitney Museum gift shop.
My image is on a poster with others half my age and younger. A marketing director for a sportswear line admires my outfit. There I am in an apricot sweatshirt draped over my own long orange peel dress. Then I get busy experimenting, adding red, yellow and green, and notice other people’s eyes lingering on me. A thirty-something woman stalks me for me three blocks. I’m more than self-conscious. I’m furious. I ask why.
“Excuse me. All I’m doing is accumulating evidence. You’re proving my point. Age is energy. Which is why I want you as the model in my two-minute video showing my collection of Lucite jewelry. Some pieces I leave pure. Others I dye. This year, it’s turquoise and amber.”
Disagreeing with her premise, I tell her I’m wrong for her audience. I’ll serve to distract, turning her earnest endeavor into a farce. She’s adamant. She won’t hear another word. “I’m all about inclusivity. Everyone, young or old, can wear what I make. It’s not just your attire. You’ve a bright spark which the camera will reveal.”
Inside my personal prism, I’d call that color orange flame.
