Peggy’s prompt—pink slippers

Peggy’s prompt—pink slippers
I looked at the photo of the pink slippers on the front of the mail-order catalog for things related to breast cancer. Pink ribbons, pink baseball caps, pink socks, pink shirts/pants/skirts/dresses, pink undies, pink shoes, and, highlighted on the front cover, pink slippers. Pink high heeled mules with pink feathers on the top. Not comfy flat, soft, fleecy slippers, but glamorous sexy “fuck me” slippers. This has gone way too far, I thought. Enough with the pink, which I never liked as a color anyway. But what woman in the throes of cancer treatment could even manage to stay upright on those things? And who would feel like even trying? And if she’s “beaten” breast cancer (meaning she’s more than five years since diagnosis, not that she’ll never get it again), she’s sick to death of all the pink. In fact, pink, to me, mean Pepto-Bismol, which I could never take without gagging. So pink is out for me.

Let the do-gooders and the Junior League have their pink stuff. The everything pink decorations, the 5-K runs, the pink ribbon pins, the “Save the Ta-Tas” T-shirts, the pink bumper stickers, the October Breast Cancer Awareness month. I’m only too aware of breast cancer. And I can’t stand pink. So count me out of anything that uses pink as a synonym for breast cancer. I feel sorry for baby girls whose mothers feel the need to dress them in pink. Unwittingly they are “glorifying” breast cancer. I say dress the babies in purple, the old lady color, to symbolize their potential long life, free of breast cancer and pink awareness.