The Quest For Pink

You'll note, the picture above is of a heart. A pink heart, to be precise. The keen observer of the human race that I am has spotted two things;
i) Men seem to handle objects stamped with the image of a heart with the care and trepidation one would employ when handling substances of dubious nature bearing hazard symbols.
ii) Men are afraid of Pink. The manlier, the more.

Don't scoff. I give you three instances with the three male friends who inspired me to write this post.

The Princess: Do you like that jacket?
Male Friend 1: (blinks) It's... pink. (edges away)

The Princess: What do you think of the picture I've used?
Male Friend 2: Can't really say. It's... pink.
(Hovers between another set of ellipses, a shrug and a gun)

The Princess: Good Morning Sunshine. How do you like my new bedspread?
Male Friend 3: It's... so... pink! Pink. Does it have to be so pink? It's too early in the morning. Why pink? It's hurting my eyes. Pink. Make it go away! Aaaaahhh!
(runs away in blind panic)

The chart below lists various symbols in order of deadliness:


Men always ignore the first one, pay a modicum of attention to the second (never if it says BEER) and are suitably impressed by the next four. But the fifth? It can make even the slowest of slackers look like Usain Bolt. In fact, I suspect that the secret behind Michael Johnson's and Usain Bolt's speed lies in that inoffensive and pretty icon, which for some reason hasn't been listed a banned substance as yet. Whether they snort it or inject it into themselves is something I haven't quite figured out. Perhaps they have pink heart implants which are affixed to suitable corners of their mind.

Aside: The fact that Yahoo Messenger has detonated every single icon in her "Falling Hearts" imvironment doesn't seem to make any difference. Sometimes, it's easier nailing jelly to a tree than understanding the friends listed above. Male Friend No 1. in particular. He can battle spiders and drape himself with a REAL boa; but he simply refuses to log in if he thinks I'm going to use that chat-box theme.

Looking to my fellow girlfriends, I noticed that depending upon the colour of the heart on her t-shirt, the distance between the girl and her date varied. The pinker it was, the further away he sat from her. When red, the spacing was moderate. And when black... ahem. I wouldn't be much of a friend if I didn't give them some privacy, would I?
From this I do not conclude "Men prefer girls with black hearts because birds of a feather flock together" which I think is highly commendable since I'm fresh out of heartbreak. I conclude that... men prefer girls with black hearts because birds of a feather flock together.
Well I can't see any other way to explain it it, and that does fit. :P I think perhaps that black is just an antidote to pink, with power enough to make the heart's presence null and void.

Renowned artist Hans Hoffman once said "It is not the form that dictates the color, but the color that brings out the form." With the observation above to support this theory, I can safely deduce that what really terrifies men is not the heart itself, but the colour pink. I'm getting somewhere now.
Yet, why would the colour Pink stand for so many good things, if it frightens so many men people? If when you're full of laughter, you're 'tickled pink', and when you're hale and hearty, you're 'in the pink of things', why would you flee at the sight/sound of it? Pink, according to Aerosmith, is even the colour of passion.

Hunting for answers, I came across phrases which only served to confuse me further, something I would like to think is as formidable a task as sobering Jack Sparrow. There were several culprits in attendance and this one turned up the most.

Real Men Wear Pink

It also perplexed me the most. Are they trying to tell me, then, that the three male friends listed above aren't real? I doubt they're hallucinations, because all my girlfriends are able to see them. And incidentally, while they in turn try to see as many of my girlfriends as possible, they're seldom successful. They almost always come up against big, beefy, muscular boyfriends. I suspect that a pink-heart flag is all they'd need to get past those hefty hunks, but it isn't something that's occurred to them yet.
If only I'd thought of it before, getting Hans Grosse to hand over the master key on the final level of Wolfenstein 3D would have been a piece of cake. Killing people can be awfully messy and my German vocabulary limits itself to the phrase "achtung baby" which, come to think of it, would be a cool thing to say before you gun somebody down. I don't remember there being a secret panel with a stash of pink hearts behind it, though. I suppose it is just as well because they would have been as out of place in there as would my dad be at a rock concert.

Yes, I have seen men wear pink, but they've all been celebrities who landed the perilously fashionable role of being metrosexual. And you can't tell me that I'm out of touch with reality and it's the natural state of affairs now, because Microsoft Word's spellcheck refused to recognise 'metrosexual' as legitimate word, as didn't Mozilla's add-on dictionaries for Firefox.

I decided to try once more, taking care to caution fellow blogger Confused and Baffled sufficiently. But not one to leave things to chance, I had both the smelling salts and tranquilliser ready. The last thing the blogosphere needs is a crazed and deranged baffled and confused blogger on the loose. Besides, I planned to lead up to the question slowly. With permission obtained before the informal chat-interview began, I reproduce the relevant passage word for word;

Me (softly and soothingly): ... and speaking of Aerosmith, do you like pink?
Sir Baffled (face blanches): depends
(through clenched teeth) not on myself
(expression softens) on scraps of cloth on certain women, yes
(forces smile) anyway
(leaps out of beanbag) must be off
(runs for his life) cya later

To give him credit, he didn't actually flee from the scene. He just left quickly, without a backward glance. A barely audible "Sorry, I'm running late" did come floating back to me via a text message, as if to say "I'm not running away. It's just that I have a dental appointment to keep." But his blood drained face said it all.

Entertaining though the chat conversation was, enlightening it was not. I suspect I may never know what the reason really is. Perhaps it's one of those deep rooted instincts that served humanity well when in its infancy. Man discovered fire, fashioned weapons out of stone, created the wheel and... was often prey to giant man-eating savage fuchsia flamingoes.