Exposed

Feeling purple but not in my favorite Prince way. Someone (some counselor?) told me I may think in numbers, like some people think in colors. Today I'm feeling a color.

"What's in the box? Are those the prints?" When I framed them I was excited and proud. My obsessive love of order and sameness was fed by the uniformity of the pictures in their container. They were surrounded by shiny black borders and clean glass that virtually sparkled. I'd signed them with my best sixth grade signature. (My penmanship never improved after Mrs. Axtell was done with me.) No one had seen the finished product but me. Suddenly - surprisingly - I realized that they'd been left out on a table during my move-in and they were being scrutinized.

"Hey, we're both signed up for the same race!" I hadn't run an official race for over a year. I'd made up my mind that I would for several reasons: My son is now a runner. There was no entry fee. (Frugality raises it's head once again.) I've moved to a new city and it's time for a fresh start. I've packed on 20 pounds since injuring my foot. Knowing that I would be slow, sweaty, and my times/race photos would be online for anyone/everyone to see gave me pause but not enough to keep me home Monday morning. So I got my older, fatter self out of bed. Oomph.

"...so I put it on twitter and forwarded it to some classmates..." Thus went the beginning of an email alerting me to the fact that my writing was about to get much more exposure than I've been used to. I'd had an inkling that it would happen and I'd let my coworkers know. I took the next step and linked the professional journal article to an email and now I'm certain that not only my family, friends, and colleagues, but also my immediate coworkers have read my words and my thoughts.

"I'm just calling to remind you of your mammogram appointment at 8:20 tomorrow morning." Why not? I feel like I've bared my soul this week. What's a little anatomy?

Here's to Mom, an all-star at letting us see her emotions. No pink for her. That would have pissed her off. Anyway, get your mammogram if it's indicated for you. No one should die of breast cancer. That's for damned sure. Mine is a year late because...well it's a year late. There are no excuses. Sorry, Mom. I'll do better next year.





©Michelle Scofield, July 7, 2011 All Rights Reserved