I am a survivor. For 364 days of the year, that moniker carries little weight but last weekend? You betcha. I wore my Komen Race for the Cure lipstick-pink shirt with pride. I picked up free merchandise to the right and to the left of me. Strangers congratulated me; they patted me on the back; they smiled when I walked by. They gave me way more credit than I was due.
But I'm not complaining. I am awed by the 67,000 people who turned up to support the cause. I get teary looking at all those still in treatment who carefully wrapped their heads in soft bandanas before topping them with baseball caps. I love the signs pinned to people's backs, celebrating those who successfully eluded cancer's clutches and remembering those who regrettably didn't. I delight in the variety of T-Shirts ("Save the Ta-Tas." "Fight like a Girl.") And, the best of all, I look forward to being handed a rose by one of the St. Louis Rams rookies, men who tower over me like the Arch. I loved being photographed, beaming in their substantial shadow.
But wait.
They forgot to come.
No longer are the Rams players there sweet-talking the ladies in pink but instead, it was the Rams cheerleaders bulging a bit out of their two-piece uniforms, waiting in line at the survivor's balloon festooned exit. And instead of the perfect flower, they gave canvas Schnucks bags.
Of course it's more practical. And, I'm sure there was more than just an occasional grouse from those gridiron stars of tomorrow.
But when you, the survivor, are thanking your lucky stars for being cancer-free or that you actually lived through another round of chemo and/or radiation, do you really think you want a body-perfect cheerleader at your side? With a grocery bag?
Nope. You don't. You want Marc Bulger. Or Steven Jackson. Or Chris Long. Or Will Witherspoon. Or Chris Massey.
And you want a single stem of something perfect.
Not a sack for eggs and milk.
