My husband said to me the other day, I want to buy you another shirt for Christmas. Something other than that pink shirt to work out in. I said I don’t have just one pink shirt. I’m not wearing the same one every day. I have multiple pink shirts, as I open up my drawer and showed him. See this one is made out of dry fit, this one is made out of cotton, this one is made out of some other fabric. It looks like I’m wearing the same shirt because they’re all pretty much the same color and same style. But it’s only because I buy the cheapest shirt and pink is usually the last shirt that’s left in the bin.

I think when I was younger, I used to care about what color things were. But ever since becoming a mom and trying to save money, it doesn’t really matter to me what color something is. I’ve even wear something hideously slime green. Because it was only five bucks. I’m also the one that doesn’t mind eating the brown banana, scraping off the parts I don’t like and making myself tolerate the soft smoosh brown bits that no one else wants to eat. This is not because I’m a martyr; part of it is to teach myself that things aren’t so bad and my life is not so bad as compared to others.

I teach myself that I can live with an ugly color, little bit of bruising or the second best if it teaches me about gratitude, teaches me about staying humble, reminds me of the first world problems that we have. It helped me save money, too.

The last color in the crayon box