With respect to one’s persona, it might be said that each one of us is a particular shade of a very eclectic color wheel. Some can stand alone as a self-righteous, opaque royal blue; while others linger in the background, a neutral, ‘Sorry, I’m not good with crowds’ beige. Some reek of a brown, relaxed, levelheadedness and others practically drown you as a bubbly, ‘Omg! Like, no.’ fuchsia.
‘I’m definitely burgundy.’ ‘Really? I pegged you as more of a sea foam green.’ More often than not, the colors we think we are don’t always align with the choices of those close to us. Like me, in my head I’m most definitely a bright, lively orange. A hilariously funny, vibrant, soaked-to-the-bone with vigor shade of orange; underlined with a slight hue of red meant to represent my obvious passion for life and all its pleasantries.
But those who know me well would probably say I’m more likely to top my rigatoni with Ragu instead of trying the new Italian place; they’d recall my use of some variant of the same toothpaste since before there was internet, my excitement for the week as spending the day in the chair rather than the couch and my witty rebuttals as often coming 7 minutes to late.
Truth be told, I’m less of an adventurous, grab-the-day-by-it’s-motherf%&#ing-throat orange and more of a laid-back, dry-humored, ‘I can’t do Thursday, there’s a new episode of Homeland’ yellow; I’m a mellow yellow. And those who know and love me don’t feel as such because I’m an overzealous, energetic shade of orange, they feel that way because I’m a mellow yellow that thinks I am.