Pink Is Not My Color

As a young girl, I don’t think I owned a stitch of pink. I was a bit of a tomboy, favoring muddy boots over delicate heels, basketball to jump rope, and riding horses to chasing boys. And pink just seemed so “girly” – something that simply didn’t appeal to me. Barbie? No way. I just didn’t get it – what were you supposed to do, dress her, undress her, and dress her again? What a pain, with her tiny little hands that always got stuck half-way down the sleeves. And besides, her legs wouldn’t wrap around my plastic model horses, and what good was she if she couldn’t ride?

Many of the young girls I know today – daughters of my friends, mainly – are obsessed with pink. They have pink rooms and pink princess dresses and pink anything-and-everything. I wonder where it comes from – maybe a desire to separate themselves from the boys, plant a firm (yet delicate) foot on the ground, and embrace their girliness? I hope so.

Pink has long been associated with the fairer sex. But these days, of course, pink is all about breast cancer. The pink ribbon is a symbol of hope and courage and remembrance and second chances. And I’m so thankful for all the effort that has gone into creating this brand – it means research is being done, new drugs are being developed, and lives are being saved. (I count mine among those.)

But, you know as well as I do that it’s gotten a bit out of control. I’m sure you remember last October’s breast cancer awareness month – every product under the sun had a pink ribbon on it, from lipstick to Ford Mustangs. One wonders, how much are these products raising awareness for the cause or just awareness for the product? Just this morning I was walking the dog around the block in my hot pink wool cap (a gift that has proven to be the best hat I have for my bald head, so I make this one important exception), carrying around a bright pink poop bag, and I thought, people must think I’m crazy. They see the cap and think “chemo” and then they see the bag and think “OMG, even her poop bag donates money to breast cancer research!” (For the record, the bags are pink simply to indicate they are scented. They are gross and we are trying to use them as quickly as possible.)

Maybe it’s just me, living with it every day, but I can’t see pink without being reminded of breast cancer. And that's why pink is not my color – because I’m so much more than this ordeal. Although I’m forever changed by my experience, I’m still so much the same as ever.

I can appreciate the power of pink, but I refuse to be defined by it.