Red, Jeweled Fruits

This post is basically about how I had my first pomegranate in over 18 years ~ it was a big little moment for me. Yes, sounds TOTALLY lame -I know- but what I'm sayin' is so-so-so true. First of all, I wore a red shirt in honor of the occasion - why is that significant? Well, for the fact that I could vaguely recall how messy pomegranates are... In fact, if I remember right, my mum would give me a small bowl and hand me a pomegranate she had split open to start me off, and then she'd send me OUTSIDE, but only if I was already wearing either red or dark clothing. SIDENOTE: I wore a lot of red as a kid and still wear a lot of reds -never, ever became a fan of 'pink' until my mid-twenties- although indigo blue has always been my favorite color ~ which brings us to Another SIDENOTE: Always in error, my mother frequently cited red as my favorite color.
Anyhow, a colleague at work had literally given me a 5-gallon bucket of pomegranates from his own pomegranate tree-?/bush-? [I guess I could check that one online, but I'm too lazy to do it right now.] Over a couple weeks' time, I gave the pomegranates away to friends at work and total strangers, alike = People would come into my office to ask me a question and I'd reply, "Want a pomegranate?" No one would ever take more than one, but I managed to give away all but four. I took those 4 pomegranates home over 2 weeks ago (yes, they keep a really, really long time in the fridge). Yup, stashed in my crisper, I ignored their existence for at least 2 whole weeks. Last Saturday, as I removed them from the crisper to make room for new fruits and veggies, I set the uneaten pomegranates out on the floor (???) as if I was planning to throw them out - and I was, but instead of tossing them out, I left the kitchen to go busy myself with something else. I came and went from the kitchen several more times that morning, ignoring the pomegranates. Finally, I asked myself, "Geesh, what's up with the pomegranates and this most obvious passive, avoidant behavior?" And the answer hit me - it grabbed my heart and lodged itself in my throat = it was too painful. I couldn't even remember how to eat them. I wanted my mum to start one for me. I wanted her to hand me one, ready for me to open.
Immediately, having realized the psychological drama surrounding these poor, neglected pomegranates that lay on my kitchen floor outside the pantry door, I went to my bedroom to change into a red shirt (picture taken later that day).
It took me over 20 minutes to rediscover just how to open and gut these babies - and the mess? I was giggling like a total goomba, tearing up at the same time and giggling some more, pleased as punch about the delightful mess I was making. I was amazed -and still am- at how much I felt like a little kid, like I did nearly 19 years ago; running out the back door at top speed, to plop down in the cool grass with my pomegranate in hand, singing ABBA's "Waterloo" at the top of my lungs.
P.S. Now that I know/remember how to eat 'em and I do happen to be much older now, I don't believe my next pomegranate will require I wear red for the occasion.