I had a tanning bed accident this weekend, and now my whole body is a commemoration of breast cancer survivorship. I am the color of a strawberry daquiri from scalp to toenail. I don’t need a hug, because frankly, certain parts of me are just too sore. Especially the lap and upper thighs, which never saw natural daylight all summer long. Anything that doesn’t hurt itches.
Speaking of which, I’m happy to support cancer research, but I’ve gotten really fatigued with the amount of pink out there. I’m tired of seeing how far marketing can extend its reach by putting pink touches everywhere you look. I’m thinking of not buying Cambell’s soup, because the whole can is day-glo pink. (Evidently chicken noodle does something swell for your breasts. I don’t know. I don’t care. The cans just look weird on my shelves.) Even my wife, who had a nasty lump excised from one breast six years ago, can no longer see the point in it. I’ve reached pink saturation. Everywhere I turn, I’m confronted by earnest people reminding me of what should be our shared values, and their commercial running dogs, trying to make a buck out of looking charitable and empathetic.
I’m not sure the pink on me is actually due to the tanning machine. It may be a sort of allergic reaction, brought on by the social condition.