Oh, rainbows. What is your magic? What is it that you do to me?
Sure, you are special, rare, and perhaps the reason why I sometimes fantasize about living in the Pacific Northwest.
I am not alone in being mesmerized by your formation. Magical folklore is written on you from centuries past. (All you science-y types here are probably being all like, ‘well, actually, atmosphere and light spectrum blah blah and it is very easy to explain why the sky is blue,’ blah blah. I am ignoring you.)
I used to draw rainbows when I was a kid, every time some cranky adult would say, ‘Shh. Go sit in the corner and color,’ (please use imaginary old man grandpa grumpy and annoyed voice when you read that phrase).
I once bought a rainbow bracelet at a small town main street kind of store, the kind that sells things like patchouli and rainbow bracelets.
Someone saw me wearing that bracelet and asked me if I was gay.
It was totally a gay pride bracelet.
I just thought it was really pretty. After all, rainbow is my favorite color.
But, hey man, that’s cool. I am as bi-curious as the next chic. In fact, I am a little sad that I never had an experimental phase in college before I met and fell in love with my husband, and tied myself down to a straight dude. (Plus, I am totally the man in the relationship. He cries and likes to cuddle. I scratch my belly and am totally a practicer of the hug and roll.)
Anyways . . . Mmmm, rainbows. Yumminess for my eyes.