For the first time ever, I participated in a Susan G. Komen “Race for the Cure” gala! The experience proved exhilarating, a celebration of giving back. No, I probably wouldn’t have participated, if my Cousin Mary Ann had not broached the topic, her face beaming with glee at the notion of us walking in pink for such a noble cause. Since I’m generally good-to-go when presented with ideas outside of my norm, I was all over it! Our registration fee covered the price of an official Komen, pink-ribboned T-shirt, on which we lovingly pent paper placards “In Memory” of our beloved family members. Beneath my ginger-streaked, dark-brown Sisterlocks, three sheets made a triad about my race number: on them were my beautiful mother’s name, Clementine Young Moss, about whom I will blog in a coming post; my mentally-retarded yet generously-gifted cousin Elondia “Bim” Young and my Renaissance/Entrepreneur uncle, Unca William “Popcorn” Young. No, he didn’t have breast cancer. My baby sis just reminded me that he succumbed to Prostate cancer. I forgot to include our mother’s mother’s name, Mrs. Pearlie Mae Young. On my cousin’s back were other family members.
The gala consisted of different categories of races and walks. There were even categories for little people. I don’t know who won what, being I was more interested in soaking up the bounty of the day: the energy of the throngs of pink-clad folks, stupendous West Palm Beach weather, the eccentric souls with pink falls grazing their shoulders and backs, those with fuchsia tu-tu’s bobbing over big and little butts, sexy workout gear that claimed my glances, the pink vehicles and fire trucks that had to roll out yearly, free-flowing bottled water, Blue Bell ice-cream cups, fruit bars, red gumbo apples and big-mama oranges, toothless babies smiling and grinning, couples boo-ed up, straight and a few gay, hey!, pets dressed better than some of their owners, dj’s spinning sounds along the race course, and Latino, Zumba afficionados popping and locking in the street in front of the dj booths!
A girl was enchanted!
What follows is a gallery of photos I snapped with my trusty cellphone! I had a slew of pics, but these made the cut with one criteria: they had to make me smile. So I figured it they could make me grin, you might follow suit. Are they not adorable…ESPECIALLY the one with a woman’s hubby dressed in a PINK BRA? I loved it. When illness or any sort of dis-ease strikes, beloveds can play a key roll in your healing!
This blog’s title drifted from the lips of an older gentleman whom someone had the foresight to discard on a low-standing concrete wall surrounding a breathtaking marina, so that he might, I gather, have a clear view of the runners and walkers. In the street before him, a television reporter in shorts with a mic and plenty of personality regaled the crowd.
“Hi! How are you?” I greeted him.
“I’m good, thank you.” He smiled, sat up straighter. “How are you, girls?”
“Super, and thank you!” I said, my cousin and I returning his cheeriness.
Bags of goodies someone, no doubt his livelier wife or girlfriend, had collected along the race route, stood sentry about him, forming a pink moat.
“Don’t you love some of these outfits? Even the pooches are decked,” I commented, laughing, wishing I’d been a bit more creative with my black yoga pants and official shirt. Together, we stared as a sexy Latina strolled by, her race shirt cut to fashion an alright-now, off-the-shoulder T-shirt above a pair of amply-filled shorts. I waved, gave her a thumb’s up. Winking, she waved and laughed.
“That’s nothing,” the Discarded Gent said. “You should see my wife’s shirt. A survivor, hers says: “Save the Tat-Tat’s! She’s a member of a group of survivors who believe in coming correct, okay!”
“Well, okay then!” I laughed and my cousin and I wished him a good day and strutted back towards the Blue Bell truck and its queue of quietly waiting ice-cream lovers.
I walked away thinking, “Yes, Lord! Save as many of the tat-tat’s as possible! And thank you, J E S U S!”