Pink on the Inside

At one time I protested against the allegation I was the "girliest girl" in my circle of friends. My basis for protesting was the fact that, among all the girls in my circle, I'm the only one who ever changed the oil in the car, went hunting (or even fired a weapon at all), or owned anything camouflage. This seemed like a sound argument.

But as I glance down at my fingernail decorations (flowers with rhinestones), I realize I'm full of shit. One look in my closet confirms it. Examining the contents of my purse leaves no doubt. My cell phone is pink and its screen decor is Hello Kitty. My iPod is pink, and its engraving proclaims me a princess. I have two messenger bags, both black and professional on the outside, but hot pink on the inside.

At this moment, the contents of my purse include: five lipsticks, two body sprays, assorted jewelry, a miniature teddy bear, a book of "love poems," a journal and my very nice, expensive pen. The pen is pink, by the way.

So I give up. I'm a girl, full-fledged. I'm gonna go put on my Browns jersey and my eye-black stickers now, but it won't change the fact that I'm all pink on the inside.