Red

Red, to me, is the color of throwing caution to the wind, exuberance, celebration and joy. It mocks attempts to harness it in prim "matching" color schemes, and is at its glorious best in a lusty spectrum from orange to purple. My favorite memories of Crete are the eclectic pots of geraniums crowded on doorsteps, and the impossibly sweet sun-ripened tomatoes - that next summer after our honeymoon, I began an annual tradition of crowding my front walk with geraniums in every shade of red I could find. (We have since moved to geranium - unfriendly climes, but that's another tale and soon to be remedied).

Sadly, red is a color I have never had success wearing - demure pink is the closest I can manage without turning my complexion ill and blotchy looking. I am hoping that socks will satisfy the craving, because wearing red feels like exactly the sort of rebellious self-expression that I am presently in the mood for. "Ha!" my red socks will say to the world, "I am not just an interminably nice professional woman whose highest calling is to listen to the excruciatingly detailed list of your bodily sensations over the last week and advise you in well modulated tones regarding your eternal quest for regularity. I am in fact exotic, imaginative and quite possibly a little dangerous." And the patients will think, "Maybe I will start exercising and lower my trans fatty acid intake." Because there's no telling what a woman in red might do.