Damn Pink

by Maggiecat

So this is hell. The walls need paint.

"You're being hypercritical, Scott," they'd say. Doesn't matter who--*somebody* would say it. Either 'hypercritical' or, if it's Bobby or Logan or someone else with less class, "You're being anal, Scott."

Well, fine. Maybe I am. But I have to be, don't I? If *I'm* not, who else will sweat the details?

Anyway. Back to the paint. A nice light blue would be pretty. Jean likes light blue, but she'll usually forego it for a safer green or black or something. She says redheads have a hard time in blue. Personally, I think she could wrap herself in blueprints and look fine, but that's just me.

This is taking forever. I've been sitting here for over twenty minutes now. Why did they tell me to come at two if they wanted me to come at two-thirty?

You know...it's experiences like this that make me realize just how sheltered we all are at the Mansion. How smoothly everything there runs, in our own little self-contained mutant-run world. Being outside, interacting with the regular denizens of Westchester...it seems to be full of so many problems, so many hitches and inconveniences. I don't feel like one of them. I'd like to, but no matter how hard I try--I can't.

And this goddamn salmon-pink paint is getting on my nerves. Who had the extreme bad taste to paint the walls salmon? Good God. It's obscene.

Okay. I'm just nervous, that's all. Calm down.

Jeannie's taking Kundalini Yoga on Thursday nights down at the community centre. She loves it. She keeps going on about how I don't breathe right and I should be doing the 'breath of fire' or some hippie goofiness like that.

Huh. Never catch *me* twisted into all those yogic pretzel shapes, or massaging my chakras with incense, or whatever it is they do.

But--it's a New-Agey kind of world now, even in quiet conservative Westchester. I suppose the X-Men aren't the only ones searching for new meaning and new methods of getting by.

"Excuse me, miss--I've been here for half and hour, and my appointment was at two. When will I--oh, I see. Well, all right, then. Thank you."

Should be another five minutes, she says. Huh. That's what she said sixteen minutes ago. I'm gonna go nuts if I have to sit here much longer, with these damn pink walls making me nauseous. Pink! Good God.

Maybe reading a magazine would help pass time. Let's see...Vogue, Elle, Better Homes and Gardens...don't they have anything a *man* would actually care to be caught reading? Ah, here we go--Time. Catch up on the events in the outside world.

Isn't it funny that we're sworn to protect and defend a world that we sometimes hardly know anything about?

"Huh? Oh, yes--I'm Mr. Summers. No, I haven't had anything to eat or drink since last night. No, I can't wait another fifteen minutes, Doctor. My tooth is aching, those walls are too damn pink, and my appointment was forty-five minutes ago! I would like to have my tooth out right now!"

I must say--being the leader of the X-Men all these years has certainly made me assertive, if nothing else. My tooth is coming out *now* or I'm gonna do something about these walls myself.

Good God. I hate dentists.

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