I'm a proponent of the Rocketship Underpants philosophy. One may have to acquiesce to adult responsibilities--work-casual doldrums, eating fiber, going to the gym, commuting with the desperate undead.
But no one can control your underpants. Your pink and yellow polka-dot bra? That's YOURS, and nary a soul knows you're wearin' it. It's not for seduction, or exhibitionism; it's just there to remind you that there is private joy in the world.
There are fewer vegetal images as effusive as chard in its multi-hued, full-frondal form, and it's hard not to do a little dance when encountering its deeply dappled, water-beaded glory in the produce section.
But like the rocketship underwear, it's a strangely private pleasure.
When I'm at the market, or doing prep in kitchen, more often than not I'm alone. And once it's cooked, the pebbly emerald leaves, ruby veins, and crisp, canary stalks subdue into Depression Era sepia tones.
By the time you've set down a tasty and nutritious meal, you're the only one who knows how much prettier it was raw.
No matter! Slurp up that chiffonade beauty, and rock them neon knickers. Some things you owe to yourself.