Please welcome today’s guest writer, Tanice Mast. Janice graduated from Calvin in 2014 with a writing major and studio art minor. She currently lives in Edmonton and has run The King’s University Bookstore for the last four years. She watches too many murder mysteries from the library and is subsequently jumpy.

Every single hand-me-down from my three older sisters was an aggressive shade of pink. Other colours got too worn out with love, but pink persevered through our ranks to rest with me. Especially socks—even the washer refused to eat any. The pink socks oozed colour through the floorboards and dripped down to the monsters below. These monsters lived to lap up the colour from our socks. They created the holes we found in our socks and loved pink in particular in direct opposition to my distaste.

When everything you own is pink, excusing it as merely “ironic” becomes less convincing. No, you actually have to admit you’re fond of this obnoxious colour.

Going for an obnoxious colour when I picked out a bike helmet just made sense. As an Edmontonian cyclist, visibility is vital because Edmontonians can’t fathom transportation independent of our provincial mascot. Oil guzzling monster trucks fill the road and I’m lucky to come up to their door handle. Becoming a splat next to the other bugs on their windshield causes me daily commuting concern. At least I would be a pink splat, and perhaps this would cause the driver pause before they spray the windshield fluid.

Edmonton infrastructure reflects these massive vehicles in story high drive-through windows and wider roads. When pulling up beside a light and trying to make eye contact with the attractive driver beside me, like the movies promised, I instead count how many bolts hold their hubcap.

Edmonton dating apps also reflect these monstrosities and their trucks. Each profile features a selfie from the driver seat or, on more occasions than possibly reasonable, a picture of just a truck. Given so little time to judge a person means creating a wise and compassionate set of judgmental deal-breakers. Like Forest Gump would examine their shoes, I check whether or not they wear a helmet.

My sister worked with folks with acquired brain injuries, and hearing the trauma such an accident can inflict almost provides enough incentive to always wear helmets. When we go driving she rolls down her broken driver’s window to yell with love at cyclists enjoying the wind through their non-helmet-hair. She’s my hero.

Wearing a helmet demonstrates an amount of self-confidence and the ability to handle responsibility. It basically says they aren’t making a completely wrong simple life choice. My helmet may not appease my phantom indie-movie-film-director that shouts through Instagram, but my pink helmet provides a view into my soul that the wind in my hair never could.

Even though it’s pink.

Especially because it’s pink.

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