Bloganuary Day 19

Today’s Bloganuary prompt is all about colors, particularly which one best describes your personality.

Honestly, I have no idea. My favorite color is red, but red represents boldness, passion, being boisterous—the typical qualities of an extrovert.

That doesn’t describe me at all.

I’m shy, quiet, reserved…

Does that make me yellow? Blue? A combination of the two (green)?


Honestly, my response to color personality tests is the same as my response to zodiac signs, vibrations, energies, etc. It’s all stupid.

Don’t limit yourself by trying to fit into a box someone else has drawn. We are who we are, whether we’re blue, yellow, purple, or green. We are who God created us to be in all His infinite wisdom and glory. So be proud of that. Be bold in that!

Photo by Darina Belonogova on

One final colorful thought before I end today’s post. Last month, I finally accomplished what I’ve been wanting to do for years now: I published my first book. It’s currently available on Kindle Vella, a relatively new platform on Amazon that allows authors to publish their stories in serial format (and the first three chapters are always free). Given that I’m a serial story blogger, it was the perfect avenue for me.

The below excerpt is from the chapter “Not Going to Fit” and feels fitting for today’s prompt. I hope you enjoy it. 🙂

Excerpt from Waiting for the Day, Christmas Day

Chapter 18: Not Going to Fit

four macaroons, orange, pink, and purple stacked, and green leaning against the tower
Photo by Arminas Raudys on

When I walk through the doors of Marinette’s Parisian Bridal Shop, I think Renee’s head just might literally explode. Her cheeks are flushed red, and I’m barely inside two seconds before she snatches up my wrist and drags me toward the fitting rooms in the back.

“Where the heck have you been!”

As mad as she is, she still doesn’t curse. I have to admire that. I’m not always able to stay in character. But then she wouldn’t be setting a good example for Bryan if she couldn’t bite her own tongue.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I lost track of time.”

“Doing what?” Rita asks as we enter the lounge area outside the fitting rooms. She’s stretched out on an upholstered loveseat behind a table full of desserts—eclairs, cream puffs, sable cookies, and the centerpiece, a tower display of rainbow-colored macarons. Rita pops one in her mouth and gives me a quick once-over as she chews.

I’m surprised to see her here, that she actually beat me, and that she looks halfway decent before noon. Her skin is glowing, actually glowing. The teal blue jumpsuit she wears, accessorized with an oversized fuzzy white wool shawl, reminds me of freshly fallen snow. Her hair even seems to be sprinkled with a dusting of something white and sparkly. And is that makeup she’s wearing? The blue eyeshadow she repeatedly tells me is so middle school whenever I wear it? What’s gotten into her? Or should I say, who?

“The next wedding party will be here in ten minutes. The coffee is cold. The macarons are hard. I called you twenty times. I thought I was gonna have to send out a search party! Where were you?” Renee is saying, practically shouting, almost crying.

I put my hands on her shoulders and shake her back to reality. “Renee, breathe. I’m the one getting married here. I can’t have my matron of honor freaking out on me.”

“Never mind that,” Renee says, waving her arms around her head as if swatting away a swarm of flies. “Now I have to find that salesclerk. We’ve got to get you in your dress before they kick us out.” She storms off in a huff and disappears behind the fitting room curtains.

When we’re alone, Rita looks up at me, still with her mouth full, and says, “So what were you really doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Tash, you’re glowing, girl.”

“I could say the same about you.” I slap her feet to the floor and join her on the loveseat. Now that I’m closer, I realize the glow in her hair is a faint blue tint. I reach out and pinch a few strands of her edges and draw back an index finger and thumb the same color as the cream filling between the blue macron sandwiches on the table. “Did you dye your hair?”

She shakes her head and flips the ends of her hair off of her shoulder. “It’s paint.”

“Paint?” I repeat as I continue to inspect her hair and scalp, discovering that the back of her neck is blue like the Blue Man Group. “Like, paint, paint?”

“What other paint is there?” she says, nudging me away.

“What were you doing? Rolling in it?”

To this, she twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “Something like that,” she teases. She bobs her head but doesn’t bother to elaborate further. I can only assume this has something to do with a man. I should be concerned given how Rita’s relationships tend to end. The last thing I would want is for her to relapse into old habits. But today I’m feeling selfish. Because I too am on cloud nine thanks to a man. Mine.

I snag a blue macaron from the tower. It breaks apart and crumbles around my lips as I sink my teeth into it. Immediately, I want to spit it out. Renee did say the macrons were hard. She can add flavorless to that list of complaints. It shouldn’t matter anyway because I’m supposed to be fasting desserts to get into my dress. How quickly I forget when my mind shifts to Mitchell.

Rita watches me from the corner of her eye, then reaches over the arm of the chair, picks up a small wicker waste basket lined with a clear plastic bag, and holds it under my chin. “Mm hmm,” she says as I let the blue glob drop from my tongue and smack the plastic. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were pregnant.”

My stomach drops in my gut. That, actually, would be worse than being on my period.

“Tash, today!” I hear Renee yell. “We still have to see the caterer!”

I try to shake the guilty feeling that’s beginning to weigh me down even more. I must be light for my wedding, I remind myself. Light as a feather, graceful as a swan, dainty as a daisy. God, I hope this dress fits.

I quickly jump to my feet and follow Renee’s voice, leaving Rita to stuff her face alone and bask in the ambience of a blossoming romance.

I wonder if Renee knows about Rita’s new love.

© 2022 Nortina Simmons

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