A Pop of Color

I'll try, but I can't make any promises

While Beyonce electrified at half-time, the SJG set off some sparks of my own over in Sherman Oaks, when I arrived at dance class in a glaringly bright... okay fine, let's call it crazy fluorescent, orange top.  The general consensus:  Wowza!  But was it a good wowza, or a bad wowza?  I'd say it was a wide-eyed, what's-gotten-into-you wowza.  As in, "Wowza, SJG, we're not used to seeing you in such insanely loud colors. Hang on while we put on our sunglasses.  Ah, that's better." Well listen up, bitches.  I'm not used to seeing me in such insanely loud colors, either.  There must be an explanation for this boldness.  It's all part of a vast color-correction conspiracy.  For my birthday, a few of my friends got together in a secret location, and made an executive decision that went something like this:  "Enough of those crappy, worn-out tank tops from the GAP, with the ancient olive oil stains and God knows what else.  She should be ashamed to step outside in those nasty things.  Time to snap her out of her sad little rut with a major pop of color."  Hence, the electric pink, the orange, the wild striped number from that fancy Lulu store. My dance teacher had this to say, once he calmed down.  "You could work for Caltrans in that orange top." A good opportunity to tell him the truth, at last.  "Oh, Dougie, I'm actually part of a prison work-release program.  Could we start class already?  I'm due back to pick up trash on the side of the freeway in an hour."