When I was about 15, I received a tiny pink sweatshirt with
Mickey Mouse on it. It looked like it
was made for a 9-year-old. I also bagged
a hot pink and gold encrusted lockable diary, and a packet of that generic
makeup stores always breakout around the holidays. Again- hot pink was the featured colour.
Mind when I was three, in ballet I insisted I be allowed to wear a
black unitard instead of the standard pink, and apparently caused such a fuss
they almost booted me from class.
However, there is a photo of a triumphant me in black, my sister next to
me posing in traditional pink.
Basically, if you’ve met me, you know I’m not a
girly-type-girl. Not that there’s
anything wrong with liking pink, but I had so vehemently defined myself out of
the starting gate as a tomboy and anti-pink, that receiving not just one, but
many gift with the offending hue made me wonder if anyone paid any attention to
me. Not an unusual feeling for a young
shy kid from a huge extended family.
A real eye-opener came when I was complaining about my “gifts”
and word came one of my mother’s friends home had caught fire. They lost everything just before
Christmas. They happen to have had a
nine-year-old daughter, so all of my gifts were re-wrapped, and passed on. I heard she loved them.
I’m glad it worked out, and they got back in their feet, but
that feeling has always stayed with me.
Me me me- and then tragedy strikes and reminds you what really matters. Sure, it makes you feel small for a time, but
I think it helps keep things in perspective.
My uncle passed away last Sunday. The holidays are approaching, and I know things
are going to be hard for his family. I
wish I could do more. I wish I had a
gift that could make everything better.
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