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The perfect pink dress

I’m not sure when exactly the obsession began, but my mom would probably say it was sometime around my Barbie-themed fifth birthday where Barbie herself actually pulled up. All colors have theories as to why they evoke the moods they do upon being laid eyes on. Pink insinuates tenderness and affection. It’s the combination of red lightened by white—literally—which brings softness to aggression. The more I’ve read on color theory the more I find myself encapsulated in the idea that colors can carry negative traits. Pink is seen as childish, naive, and needy; funny a color isn’t even just a color.

Great crayon names

According to the globe's favorite crayon maker, Crayola, pink represents a spectrum of shades including cotton candy, razzmatazz, tickle-me-pink, salmon, marvelous, blush, wild strawberry, and many, many more. All the more to say, when I see it, I smile; when I wear it, other people do. So, when I devote an entire week to wearing only pink-tones (with the occasional accent color), I have to document it. And so begins my week in pink.

Part 1: First Class

I saw a meme recently that said every girl has a group chat of two or three friends with a silly name attached. I only have one group chat and the name is less of a “haha” kind of silly and more of a… “haha we need a show about our idiocy and combined intelligence.” Working Girls has been our group chat name for well over a year and came about after three of my best friends and I realized all we do is work, party, and be dumb, super-silly girls.

Here’s the cast: Siya is a creative producer, which I admittingly thought was only a person who makes beats. She does not make beats but instead organizes the production and creative for music videos, campaigns, events, editorial spreads, and anything else you would put on a mood board. She has a few silver hairs that catch the light like diamonds or very expensive highlights and manages to make it to 6am boxing classes twice a week.

Esther is also a producer, more on the experiential side making panel conversations go as smooth as room temp butter on sourdough toast and organizing events for the coolest — and sometimes super random — brands like Totino’s Pizza Rolls or Nike.

Ash is a photographer who presents her enigmatic energy and expressive joy through each image she creates. She teaches me how to make Thai dishes with her mom, calls me her muse each time we shoot together, and somehow has ten jobs she’s pulling off really well all with a contagious smile on her face. (She couldn’t make the trip because she just returned from Thailand days before, but she was there in spirit day after day.)

Deep thoughts at sunrise

I’ll let my main character syndrome take the reigns as I summarize myself. I like to think I’m a star in this world with how all over the place my path is. Maybe I’ve already turned to dust or blown up in a supernova and you’re all seeing a version of me that no longer exists; or maybe I’m actually a fiery planet closer in orbit than usual so you can only really see me in your solar system for one night only. I’ve been writing my whole life, cooking my whole life, and in recent years started food styling, modeling, and whatever else people think I’m capable enough to do for money (I’ll try anything once).

Our group chat name is no more silly than it is truly chaotic and 100% in support of us getting to the bag. Let’s all take a beat and manifest millionaire status for ourselves and everyone we love [TAKE A DEEP BREATH].

Manifesting good fortune

For my 26th birthday, I planned to do nothing but drink away the dread of not being able to give into Web MD induced diagnosis of illnesses I surely do not have, but would go see a doctor about just because I could. Working Girls wouldn’t have that, though. Trip destination ideas drifted through dozens of text threads with suggestions like Italy, Paris, and Mexico coming up, but Miami never crossed my mind.

We rarely can get together as a group because bi-coastal hotties never seem to settle on one coast at the same time. So over a bang bang (having two dinners back to back) in Los Angeles, Esther joked about all the miles our meals have gotten her.(I am afraid of what might happen if I had a credit card in my possession). With my birthday top of mind and Miami just close enough where we could all take meetings without major time zone delays, she began to look up flights. The price was right — or I guess the points were — and at dinner number one we bought plane tickets. Dinner number two was all about finding hotels and planning adventures (yes, my producer bestie made a ROS for vacation).

Just go with it

As the months before the trip turned to weeks, and then days, first class upgrades were offered and accepted. I selected my in-flight breakfast of charcuterie and fresh croissants. Shortly after boarding our 8am flight I guzzled down three mimosas, nibbled on brie and buttered breads, and topped it all off with a coffee lightened with cream just before landing. Was I ready for a nap before the vacation even started? 100%.

Part 2: The Finals

Day one consisted of two piña coladas on the beach before Siya arrived right on time with the complimentary cocktail cart that made its rounds at our hotel door nightly. We headed to dinner and while indulging in mezze at Mandolin we followed along the score of the playoffs between the Heat versus Celtics. Did we, three Bay Area-raised Warriors fans, actually care? No. But I had been on a blind date to game two of the Knicks and Heat and maybe it was Madison Square Garden or the sheer randomness of it all but it turned me into a full-on playoffs princess.

The gang: Esther, Siya, and me

I followed along wholeheartedly until the Warriors fell out of the circuit and then bopped around from team to team depending on whose players were cuter. Halfway through dinner the final scores were posted. The Celtics won and we knew the next game would be in Miami. A Google later we were looking at tickets and as the check landed we contemplated the splurge. Finally, the definition of nosebleed seats were purchased and we headed out to a kickoff party for a festival we had been sure would be a Miami highlight — until the heat kicked in.

There are a couple defining moments that led to us finding our seats at the game. First, my vintage pink kitten heels fell completely apart in the one block walk from dinner to the arena. We bought super glue, that didn’t work. Then Esther carried me on her back to Ross as I was shoeless on the street, praying for pink shoes in my size at the discount store. Upon entering Ross, we found a perfect pair of pink replacement shoes — fate.

The Ross shoes that saved the day

We made it into the arena and found our seats, just a few rows down from basically the edge of the ceiling. We cheered, drank, yelled, and were equally as enraged as any other Heat fan that night watching the refs call bullshit fouls and passing out free throws to the opposition. Then, with two minutes to spare, we left the arena. Partially to avoid the crowd but mostly to make it to a reservation for late night pasta at Jaguar Sun. How could we have imagined there might be any kind of comeback… let alone the greatest comeback and right-at-the-buzzer shot that would have been a make it or break it to game 7. I wasn't going to miss out on crab agnolotti to witness a loss… but missing viewing that shot was a loss in and of itself. So the finals continued and so did our days in tropical storms, blue and white beach chairs, and soon to be boats (and lots and lots of pasta and pink).

Part 3: Bridges and Boats

Our run of show had our boat rental locked in for day four (a day before my birthday) but plans changed. I love all of my jobs/hobbies/passions/things I get to do for a living equally , so when Chris (artist, director, and hot sauce extraordinaire) hit me up about making a cookout happen, I was all ears. We took advantage of the upcoming bank holiday to plan a fish fry between my recurring seafood pop-up, Marine Security, and his family-run hot sauce brand, Homegrown. Was I so-super-beyond excited to cook in this city that had been welcoming me with open arms? Of course. But I was even more excited to source and cook fish from the same ocean I’d spend my days basking in. However, this all meant one major change needed to come to our ROS. I’m not sure how many folks are familiar with the difficulty that arises when trying to reschedule a prepaid boat and captain from South Beach during the first weeks of perfect, pure summer — but it is no small feat.

Esther saving the day and driving the boat

However, the geminis who graced the beaches before me gave us strength (and Esther can reroute just about any plan without compromising quality) and a new boat was booked. We raged on through the night at Dante’s Hi-Fi, choosing ignorance at the fact that we had a boat to board in the morning.

Immediately lost this lighter

Groggy and ready to dive in the Middle of the Ocean (queue Drake), we hauled ass across town to devour the city's most prominent hangover cure, Versailles. I grew up on the Los Angeles mockup of the establishment when spending the summers with my grandmother who would point out directors and movie stars dining around us. One bite of a cubano, a few spoonfuls of rice, plates of platanos, and half a chicken set our stomachs straight for four hours at sea. The bill was paid, bottles of natural wine were procured, and within the blink of an eye we were pulling off the dock.

.5

We had worked for weeks for this moment. When projects weren’t working out we reminded each other “soon we’ll be on a boat in Miami”. It became the group mantra to remind one another to persevere just until vacation — then we could break down about our qualms. There’s no better feeling than making it to the moment that has been motivating you.

I’m on a boat

As we made our way through the canals, our lovely captain pointed out a home that looked like a private island hidden behind tall green palms. He asked if we knew who owned it, we all shook our heads no as I fussed with the cork on a bottle of orange wine. He divulged the 411 that the largest home on the canal was owned by the creator of Viagra — the most Miami answer I never would have imagined. Miami is an erratic (or dare I say erect) masterpiece of a city that’s equal parts concrete and jungle, but not in the concrete jungle way New York is.

Bridges and boats

Floating alongside homes, picking which we’d buy and make the ultimate live/work space out of, I couldn’t help but let Viagra-induced worries into my mind. My birthday was less than 48 hours away and I too wouldn’t be young forever, with stamina and drive to make the most of my days. Soothed by the thought that erectile dysfunction wasn’t something I’d have to worry about, the anchor was dropped and it was time to jump in.

Wavy baby!

The thought of fleeting youthfulness, room service charges, whether my produce order would be fulfilled in time, and other stressors fled my mind. As Everytime by Britney Spears, a pink icon, came over the speaker I turned the volume up to max and daydreamed about moving to the party girl paradise we were floating through.

Queue Britney

Our heads fell back as we sang into the breeze. I could feel my main character syndrome kicking into overdrive. I had seen Spring Breakers with my grandma in theaters as a teenager. We knew Selena Gomez from Wizards of Waverly Place and I thought the fliers of girls in bikinis and handcuffs were alluding to satire. She wanted to leave halfway through, but my 15 year old brain started to race with ideas. I asked to stay and we did. I imagine she was filled with parental fear while I sat, enamored and compiling the sound track’s top hits and future outfit inspiration in my mind until the credits rolled.

Party girl paradise

Between Britney, the boat, my best friends, and three bottles of wine, my mind went truly still and silent for a second or two. A feeling I crave but can’t recreate once it’s gone. Call me corny — but time flies when you’re having fun. Our four hours were up. Naps were needed, but first I had to prep. The sun set over us as we made our way back to the hotel, I showered and changed clothes then hopped in a car to make pickles. Good pickles in my opinion need at least 24-hours and our fish fry was t-minus 30 hours away.

One thing led to another and the post-pickling party led us to Lagniappe for wine and build-your-own charcuterie boards (like Build-A-Bear for adults). Then to an iconic afters at CoyoTaco where we communally lost our voices to the sounds of R&B classics spun by Gio. I needed to sleep, make a prep list, and place last minute orders — but first I needed three tacos from Coyo and a Coca-Cola.

Part 4: Uninsured

The parties are in the past and the pressure is… all in my head. Every time it comes time to cook my mind spins a web of what if’s and disasters alongside creeping in imposter syndrome. But I refuse to let this day carry stressful energy, I was just on a boat throwing ass at the sea less than 24-hours before, how could I worry??

Writing my third to-do list

On normal event days I would pace around looking at ingredients, rewriting to-do lists, and research menu tweaks. But my birthday was at midnight which made this the last day I could injure myself and have a copay to fall back on. I would live on the edge, jump, skip, hop as many places as possible and make the most of my youth.

I couldn’t start prep until 3pm and dinner was intended to start at 6pm. The delusion that I could prepare food for thirty in that amount of time with only pickles crossed off my list of things to finish set in. So I decided to go paddle boarding to get my mind off of it. We paddled from Morningside Park to a small island not far from shore and laid afloat until my timer went off telling me it was kitchen time. I decided I would just wear the ocean on my skin for the day to remind myself that I could wash off whatever might go wrong with a quick dive later that night.

Not my knife

I arrived at El Bagel, the iconic bagel spot that had generously offered us their space to prep in, 15 minutes into my three hours. With two hours and 45 minutes to go, I drew out a picture of the plate, detailed the menu, and assigned tasks. The menu was a collaborative effort of dishes inspired by home cooked meals from my and Chris’ families.

Chris and his fam-bam

His moms’ Johnny cakes would be fried on-site, I would make my dads’ fried fish rom memory with locally caught grouper.

Real family recipe

Using their hot sauce I made a buffalo sauce with european butter, quick greens, tartar sauce, and new potato salad with homemade garlic confit aioli.

Good cake

Esther and Siya were on cake duty, this wasn’t my first year planning my own birthday cake and I knew exactly what I wanted; a butter sheet cake with mascarpone whipped cream and fresh strawberries. Simon, one of the geniuses behind El Bagel (Miami’s best bagel spot) offered to stay and help prep — he became my saving grace for the day.

Shoutout Simon

I’m not sure if it was the blank stares into space filled with uncertainty or genuine interest in being with us in the kitchen (I think it was a bit of both); but without him I would have surely curled up into a ball in some corner stuffing my face with leftover bagel dogs. Tasks were agreed upon, a dredge was made, fish fileted, and the cake was frosted.

Great grandma always in my notes

Our cookout turned into a game 7 viewing party, because who in Heat-city would have shown up otherwise? The Lower East Coast parking lot was transformed into a communal eating area with tables set up for plating and a propane-powered fryer ready to be ignited.

Old Bay battered grouper

The joy I feel when I feed people is unmatched. It’s better than a boat ride or first class flight. I get my kicks out of watching people's eyes light up after the first bite or the site of their chests rising as they take in the scents emitting from the fryer with deep breaths. All the plates were in hand by halftime and we all raised a glass to community, the city, and the Heat!

Gotta give a toast

We sang happy birthday, ate cake, cleaned and headed home. Riding high as the clock struck midnight I headed to the beach to finish a bottle of wine from dinner. I listened as the waves kissed the sand, they were wet and loud kisses like seeing your lover for the first time in weeks.

It was too dark to see the edge and depths of it and I knew better than to get in even though temptation creeped up my spine. I was alone but laughing out loud and when it started drizzling I left and nestled into bed between my snoring friends.

I’m 26 in this pic

I woke up older, officially uninsured, and still full. I’m not sure if I was full of food or love or good karma. I had been so afraid for weeks about what might happen to me without health insurance like dreading your first student loan payment you’ve known you would owe for years. I had been tripping and falling all week though, in love with myself, my best friends, and my personal perfect shade of pink which balanced the right amount of softness and aggression.

“I remember being 25 like it was yesterday!”

The fear of what it meant to switch age brackets from the 18–25 group to 26-35 had been hanging over my head like a Miami storm that seemingly came out of nowhere. I rewrote our ROS as a timeline of actual events over dinner alone at Uchi. I kept thinking about how much we had done, how we made a week into a month and hearing Drake saying More Life. I laughed at the thought of more life… at the thought of being afraid of the future and not having my ten year plan all plotted out. There’s nothing wrong with just tripping and falling into tomorrow.

My week in pink

The end.