Wearing Red

I don’t know how anyone wears red. I just put on a red shirt. Bright red. ‘Firetruck’ would be just a shade below accurate. I vaguely remember purchasing it some years back, but can’t recall a time that I didn’t wear it without some sense of pushing through the experience, like how one never quite settles in to snow boots and that funny strut they demand. Unlike other colors, I can feel this one. I feel ridiculous. It feels like my body is yelling.

Red is the color of stop, fire, strip-club and Santa Clause. These are all very loud images, all promising, in the most direct terms, danger or presents. I”m pretty sure that this same urgency, on some level, is transfered to attire.

Red is the fastest way to let something know that some serious business is about to occur and that you had better start gearing up to handle it.

Hey, that accountant could have a knife.

Oh my god, is Jim offering me a handjob?

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I haven’t showered, haven’t shaved, and am generally not prepared to stand tall and proud behind such an intense color choice. I really do feel as though everyone’s going to be super wary of me. “Jesus, what’s that guys problem?”

“Which guy?”

“Fucking guy in the red shirt! He’s about to start some shit.”