I was halfway there when my feet started to hurt.  And I wondered, When was the last time I didn’t change my shoes for this walk? 

This made me think of my semester in D.C., of my faithful red shoes that got me to and from work each and every day for four months.  Through snow and rain and sleet and long days and long nights and car splashes they carried me.  I think I still have them, just for the memory.  I’m sentimental like that.

And then I started wondering why I have such vivid memories of my semester spent in Washington.  Maybe it’s because it was a dream come true in so many different ways.  Maybe because I witnessed history every day and have pictures to prove it.  And maybe, just maybe, it’s because I wrote about it.

My Washington Times, an online journal in blog form, helped me sort out the days and weeks and months of new experiences and challenges and joys and stresses.  I came home exhausted, but I always could write.  I still remember the little nook in the corner of my apartment building where I would sit and write and hash out my day… and finally, post.  It was my sanctuary, my haven.

I knew that people I loved and who loved me were reading my thoughts and experiences.  Somehow, in a city all by myself, I didn’t feel so alone.  Little did I know that my future husband and mother-in-law read right along with my parents and dear friends.

Writing helps you remember.  And it’s because of that experience that I want to chronicle this new adventure.  I want to live it to the fullest, experience the excitement and intimidation, record it all so that one day I can look back and not forget.

Thankfully, my peony pink silk scarf was a gift.  From a friend.  From France.

This morning I donned a black skirt, black sweater, black heels, and my peony pink silk scarf.  A little color never hurt.

Peony pink has helped me out several times, in fact.  The one that came first to mind was a day almost five years ago, just after the 2004 presidential election, when I was interning at the White House:

Yesterday was what you would call a “yucky day”, weather-wise, that is. It was rainy and windy and cold and very, very wet.

As I walked to work yesterday morning, I attempted to juggle my two bags, talk to my mom on my cell phone, keep myself dry with my pitifully-proportioned umbrella, and avoid any major puddles. This umbrella (the one I bought several months ago after I lost my “real” one on the Metro) really is pitiful. When the wind blows, it swaggers and sways, almost breaking in half. The wings of the umbrella (whatever you call those individual pieces of nylon that are sewn together and comprise the whole tent of the umbrella) blow up and down, back and forth. I am honestly amazed that this cheap contraption is still alive. Mom is sending me my Hillsdale umbrella, and hopefully, this one will hold up better than its predecessor.

I stepped out of work around 2 or so yesterday afternoon to get a cup of chai. We were at work until about 11 pm or so on Thursday… so the four and half hours of sleep I received were not enough to keep me from yawning every other minute. On my way back from Caribou, a very English-looking gentleman called to me and said, “It is a delightful thing to see a bright pink coat on a rainy day.” He spoke with a lovely British accent. Maybe he was a part of the British entourage that was here this week. [Insert: he was, in fact, part of the delegation accompanying then-Prime Minister Tony Blair]  In any case, it was a lovely surprise in the middle of a cold and wet and bone-chilling walk. Pink always makes things seem better.

Last night I walked home early (at 5:30 pm)… but it was still raining. Made it to the Metro, through the Metro system, and almost no trouble… I was a bit damp, but my umbrella was still functioning, and I was almost home. I picked up my dry cleaning and made my way up the sidewalk, dodging the puddles as I went. I was less than a block from home… and, as I stood waiting to cross the street, a car drove by through a very large puddle… and all of the sudden, I felt a profound sense of wetness. Yes. I had been splashed. My hair and my face and my coat and my pants and my shoes and everything was drenched.  Thankfully, the dry cleaning was safe in its plastic wrapping. I felt like a complete idiot. And a very wet one at that.

When I think of DC, I think of my peony pink raincoat.  When I think of our wedding, bright splashes of peony pink appear.  And somehow, this peony pink scarf now takes on new significance.  I’m getting ready to register for my class.  I started reading one of my textbooks by one of my future professors yesterday as I sat in the sun.

Peony pink isn’t exactly what one might call… scholarly.  Maybe I should wear grey flannels and glasses.  But my wonderful Spanish professor from college always wore the most brilliantly colored dresses, even in the dead of Michigan winter.  And I loved her for it.

So I can be different, right?  Peony pink it is.

Or, someday, the professor in the pink scarf.