I don't wear much red in the way of the major clothing groups: shirts, pants, dresses. Some are Red People. I am not, in dress or personality. But I ain't living life without splashes of red, in the home, in art, in dress and personality.
I've owned three red cars in my life. My favorite was a 1980 burgundy Cadillac De Ville with 159,000 miles on it that my step grandfather sold to me for $1.00. We called it the Merlot Brougham ("Bro-Ham"), from the movie The Great White Hype, and it drove like an ocean liner on well-oiled wheels. I loved especially the thin, hulahoop steering wheel with the finger grooves that swung into a turn with the smooth rotation of the palm of one hand. I loved the clunky clicks of throwing it into park, the gear shift behind the wheel. I loved the metalic dirt smell of the torn, maroon interior. I loved how the trunk could house a family of four and I loved how the dash displayed tall green digital numbers that even a blind driver could see. When Mina was born, I refused to drive our newer car because I felt safe and old-school stylin when driving the Caddie. Also, it had no air bags so I could keep Mina in the front with me instead of having her stare off into abandonment in the back seat. We eventually -- near begrudgingly -- donated the Merlot Broug-ham to the Make a Wish Foundation.
I owned a red Honda Elite 150 scooter when I was 20. I drove it rocking minidresses and a huge, brown helmet. Illegally, I drove it on the freeway weekly and prayed for my life every time a truck passed, shaking the scooter like a reed. And once I moved from one apartment to another loading all of my possessions on the scooter making the move in 2 trips. The shit I could do with a bungee cord back then was close to genius. Paintings, bags of clothes, lamps, baskets, pots & pans, small appliances all on the red bike.
I do not like to get angry. In fact, I have spent a lot of internal energy tempering my mood. It doesn’t even take much effort any more to remain even-keeled. It just doesn't make sense to me to get all worked up about things. Messing with my kids, obviously, will boil my blood. That and, embarrassingly, I get really angry if a waiter or salesperson or cashier SIGHS when I ask them a question. There have been a couple times where my face has instantly flushed from such an exchange, and I have swiveled my head and asked them, "Did I ask you to work here?" See? Embarrassing, but I can't help that my vision is washed in red after the release of a rude worker's sigh in my direction.
I experience the female equivalent of a wet dream about once a month. I wake in a jolt at the pinnacle of climax without touch or provocation. It's red hot.