Not Your Daddy's Orange

I've never been a fan of orange. In fact, I've never really thought of it as a color at all; it's more of a punch line. Red's ugly stepsister. The color of that ill-conceived 70s shag carpet, and the wide-lapel polyester leisure suit my husband was wearing in that high school picture I've been holding over his head for years. I own nothing orange. Not clothing, not home decor, not even kids' toys.

So explain this:


I LOVE this. I love that it is smooth, boring stockinette. I love that it is DK weight and taking roughly an hour per centimeter to knit. And I love that it is orange. It is not pumpkin or rust or terra cotta, no matter what the designers call it. Let's just see it for what it is: ORANGE.

There is something about this color that compels me to keep knitting and knitting and knitting it, with periodic pauses to smooth it across my lap and pet the soft stitches with an affection and fascination usually reserved for cashmere or spun silk.

Until I was 30, black was my favorite color. Even as a three-year-old, I only wanted to wear black. After my second son was born, I abruptly fell in love with the color red. It is a love affair that has continued for several years now, and has invaded every aspect of my life, from my clothing to my car to my house to my garden.

And now this. Orange. Is this personal growth, or just another horrible abberrant phase--like tongue piercing?