The Pink Pants


Mom is on her way to the mall and asks me if I want anything. Hmm…I have been living in Levi 501’s and flannels for most of the year. “Something pink.” I reply, not even knowing what I am asking for besides color. But my mom is good at figuring this stuff out.

She returns with a really cute pair of pink pants. They actually make me smile. A sober smile at the moment since I haven’t drank or drugged for a few days. Not because I don’t want to, the opportunity did not present itself to me. My mom has also bought a pretty, white ruffled top that might be a bit too tight around the chest. I don’t complain. It shows a little cleavage, just enough that I can get away with wearing it at the age of 13.

I meet up with my boyfriend at Petit Park later that afternoon. “What’s with the pink?” he asks. I shrug my shoulders. “Cute.”, he says. We hold hands and walk through the park not saying much. It is a mild spring day in Granada Hills, CA. Not a cloud in the sky, a strong sun, yet there is a soft breeze that keeps it from becoming too hot. Though if you were in a car, the heat would feel smoldering. If you stand in the shade, you would get goose bumps from the chill. On days such as these, I found myself rotating from shade to sun as I attempt to achieve the perfect temperature.

My boyfriend and I think we are in love for eternity, or at least por vida. We have no idea of each other’s future journey through drug addiction and institutions. Right now we only want to be together. They say love is blind and it can be. When you are young it is blind to any view of the future. All that matters is right here, right now. I believe this to be a gift. For if we were to see what was actually coming down the pipeline, we might have chosen not to go on at all.

Just as the pink pants only lasted a season, so did we as a couple. Though for many years we kept getting back together hoping to renew that feeling. To our disappointment, time and distance did not allow for it to happen. It would be like covering the pink pants with patches. Though it may work, the fabric will be forever altered.

So we both learned to chase other things. Our individual addictions. We found this to be the best way to break up for good. No hard feelings. Always a loving hug each time we ran into each other. Though these accidental meet-ups became fewer and further between until 25 years had passed without an encounter.

I’ve become quite patched up over the years, inside and out. Never the same. Sometimes looking good for the wear, sometimes not so good. But always different. Growth is like that. Life is like that.

So we learn to be grateful for the journey. Even when we remember the beauty of what we looked like when we were brand new and without any obvious flaws, we can appreciate the patches. We can also thank our Highest Power for mending us along the span of our lives.

Have you held onto an item of clothing for many years? Might it be a representation of something greater? If so, I would love to hear about it.

Stay Blissful My Friends – E

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