The Pink Syndrome.

'The Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living'-Socrates

Today, I noticed that there is something special about the color ‘pink.’ As a society, we view pink as the ultimate 'feminine color.' An object, person, place, or thing with any hint of ‘pink’ has a touch of femininity- girl, woman, lady or maybe Goddess like. Pink is a feel good color. There is nothing threatening, harmful, brash, or violent about it. I mean, even hearts are always ‘pink’ on Valentine’s Day. I asked my co-workers what comes to mind when they see the color 'pink.' 'Girly, gay or a faggot,' was one response. The other was 'Babies and Pepto-Bismol that’s about it.' I also asked 'do you like, pink?' One said 'it depends on the pigmentation.' I found this fascinating. I didn't expect those responses, but it was a subjective question. For some reason, I saw much more than babies, gays, or piglets when I reflected on the color 'pink.' Aerosmith has a song entitled 'Pink,' and I think that their lyrics convey 'pink's' message best (You should go Youtube it if you've never heard it: great song).

'Pink it's the color of passion'- Aerosmith

When I was a little girl, and when I saw the color ‘pink,’ I saw myself. My absolute favorite colors were 'pink and blue.' The two colors complimented each other-they created balance. Too much 'pink' was overwhelming and bratty, but too much 'blue' was just plain boyish. And I was by no means, a 'boy.' Pink and blue was like yin and yang. Hence, a man wearing 'pink' is considered gay, (according to my co-worker and other manly, 'blue' men). Yet, 'pink' can also be artistic if a guy is stylish and confident enough to pull it off- while maintaining his masculine disposition, of course. Normally, I receive my share of stares, catcalls, and roaming eyes when I’m out in Manhattan: on the 3-train, walking to lunch, or just frolicking about the busy city streets. But yesterday, it was different. The double-takes lasted longer than two seconds-the glances were more intensified, and even the number of consecutive catcalls and ‘how you doings’ were astronomical. 'What was the big deal about today?' I thought. I literally had gotten dressed in ten-minutes, so there was nothing spectacular about my outfit. The night before was long and I thought I appeared as run-down as I felt. I threw-on a pair of dark-blue strait legged jeans, a wrinkled, stretch cotton-T-shirt, and a multi-colored floral headband around the front part of my untamed hair. I soon realized that the shirt-although a regular, old short sleeve‘t’ had special powers. It was feminine, simple, and elegant. It was light pink. After paying close attention to 'pink’s' effect on men, I am convinced that Pink is a very powerful color. Pink is Love. Is there anything more powerful than that?

I probably would not have had on this ‘pink’ shirt had it not been for the mad dash to put on something quick and to get my ass to work before I got a ‘pink’ slip. The previous night was full of sweaty dancing, energy and urban tunes with my home girl T, and two of her Caucasian buddies, in a party in the meatpacking district. Having to be up for work at 8am, I had a strange feeling that getting home at 5AM would lead to a disastrous three-hour rest. It was-and those 'three hours' which I could have had without penalty, turned into four. Rubbing my eyes at 9:40 am-I got to work at 10:30am. And there is nothing pretty about being late to work.

Something told me to just stay awake and go to work early-but I didn't listen to that 'feeling.' I’m discovering more and more about this little internal guide. I don’t think much about it-I just feel it. This little 'thing' is something like a navigational system. Like a little bell that goes off in my head. Although I do not always follow it to a T or understand why it’s telling me to do certain things, it never seems to be wrong. It’s intuition. That little voice that speaks to me and I don’t know where it’s coming from. It cannot be rationalized because it is beyond me-but it never fails. I’m learning to trust it and to let it guide me. Someone once said that intuition is 'that tap on the shoulder when God is trying to tell you something.' I wondered... In essence that seems to be exactly what it is. It’s God’s spiritual form of guidance. And one thing is for certain: since God cannot be rationalized, neither can intuition. I guess I'm learning to trust it.

After finally getting home from work, I was beat. I took off my pink, attention-grabbing 't,' laying it on top of my hamper instead of putting it inside. For some reason, I knew I would need to put it back on. I lay down but I couldn't relax. There wasn't enough oxygen going to my lungs. My throat was swelling up and breathing was difficult. It was like I could get the air but I wasn’t getting the full amount. My legs, arms, and neck muscles felt like tension rods and breathing just got more and more difficult. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I thought. This was not the first time that I felt this breathing malfunction-just two-days before, I was telling my mother that I felt like I wasn’t getting enough air while walking home: but it was never this intense. I got up and stretched my body to the heavens-still, no relief. I lay back down but continued to experience faulty breathes and my esophagus seemed to be closing up. Finally, I decided I would go to the emergency room.
Something just wasn't right.

I was right. After text-message deliberations with my mother, I reached for the pink 't' and my skinny jeans. I found myself in Brookdale Hospital 30-minutes later. This has to be the most disgusting, filthy, unprofessional and unkempt medical environment that I have ever seen. From the reception, to the Triage room, this place screamed under-funding, underprivileged and unconcerned. The nurses and aides had bad attitudes and talked to people like they were their enemies and not patients. Even the sign-in sheet was sad to look at. There were literally 20 people waiting. Being that I had a breathing problem, I was able to walk strait to the triage. ‘Which way is the nurse?’ I asked the woman in Triage. ‘Over there,’ she said in a heavy West-Indian accent. I looked and realized I did not know where 'over-there' was, so I asked the aid in front of her. ‘Where is the nurse?’ She looked at me like I was an idiot with the nerve to re-iterate: ‘she said over-there.’ Looking back at her, in utter disbelief, I said ‘OK, well I don’t know where ‘over there’ is.’ (Bitch) After being re-directed and pointed in five-different directions, I was told to take a seat. The triage was right next to the ambulance entrance where people with fresh gun wounds and slashes were dropped off. A younger nurse walked to where another patient and I were sitting. Of course, another BBWA-Black Bitch with an Attitude. ‘Why are these patients back here? Who is just letting them walk back here?’ She asked with rhetorical attitude. Meanwhile, my chest is heaving, and can barely speak, but I’m being made to feel like I’m not even supposed to be waiting for fucking treatment. I could have snatched that tacky horsehair right from the roots of her nappy head. (Bitch) I looked at her and was about two breathes too short of addressing her unprofessional-ass when the nurse finally came to the area. He was just as disappointing-he had a thick, Haitian accent and was very brief and lacked social skills. Finally, I sat down about to receive some treatment. When asked my name, I couldn't respond. I felt like I was choking and my chest started heaving. Tears were swelling up in my eyes and I was frantically searching my purse for my driver’s license and insurance card because I couldn’t get a word out of my mouth. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ He asked. One would think the heaving chest and crying would show signs of a respiratory issue? Unbelievable. I struggled to explain how I felt with each short forced breathe. ‘What happened?’ How does your throat feel?’ Now normally, I’m very healthy and I can't even recall the last time I’ve visited a hospital; or primary physician-but hey, my motto is if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. After taking my blood pressure, temperature and O2 levels, he concluded I was fine. ‘Your bweathing is vewy, vewy guud’ he said. It seemed as if I was just going crazy or being a hypochondriac. Prior to coming, I text messaged my mother and she pushed me to go. But, I hated to seem like I was ill and was really, perfectly fine-it made me feel like a fool. Now, Mr. Haitian nurse was making me feel the exact way which I was trying to avoid-dumb. Why the hell did I even come? He told me he would have a Doctor see me anyway because it could be something else. This made me feel a little better, but not much. ‘Maybe I should have just sucked it up and stayed home,’ I thought. But, again, my initial feeling was right. I waited in the waiting area for about 45 minutes. I was in Triage while Barack Obama was giving his Democratic nomination speech. The CNN post-analysis was going on and I was able to see re-runs of clips from his address. Sitting to my left, there were two-young girls who looked like they were strait from the hood. One was fair-skinned and the other was a hazelnut-brown complexion. They appeared to be delinquents-like they were there because they had got into a fight and bruised a rib. I was heavily engaged in the political program, and I saw them looking at me out the corner of their eyes. With the exception of about three elders, none of the young people seemed to care about watching the coverage. Maybe that’s why they were staring at me-because I was so in tuned and they couldn’t figure out why. A Caucasian man hollered my name from the doorway to come to the back rooms. I followed. Finally, at 12:45am, after a few questions and routine doctoral checks, he gave me an answer. The doc finally diagnosed me: ‘It’s anxiety.’ I couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. ‘Is he freaking serious?’ I thought. ‘Well, how? I don't feel anxious.’ I asked, beyond perplexed and completely thrown off. He was Russian or something, and from my experience with them, they can be really rude-downright nasty. (Rougher than the most ghetto of Black people) That is one really aggressive culture. They actually like pain! He must have been offended, but I was merely seeking an explanation to his prognosis. Again, I was made to feel like I had no right even inquiring. ‘Look, you can argue all you want, I’m giving you my opinion, I’ve’ been doing this for..’ blah blah blah. What a jerk. As an inquisitive soul and a Scorpio, I like to get to the bottom of things, and I really didn’t understand how the hell I had anxiety when I wasn’t even anxious. You would think I asked him to cut his tongue off with all of the attitude he gave me. I then text-messaged my mom: ‘I’m so out of here. This PA is telling me I have ‘anxiety.’ This is ridiculous.’ When I left the ER my mother told me that my Aunt Cynthia had anxiety as well. The PA who checked me also mentioned that anxiety runs in the family.
Maybe he wasn’t a crock of crap after all.
My mother told me ‘you need to loosen up-you were tense when you were here.’ Sometimes it takes someone from the outside looking in to examine things going on in your life that you may not see. So, Socrates was right. The unexamined life is probably not worth living-and if we fail to put ourselves under the microscope, or allow others to look deeper, we may miss valuable lessons to learn. We may even die if we don't find our issues and solve them. Be it the powerful effects of a favorite color, or the problems associated with underlying stress-a little cross-examining can be beneficial. Looking a little closer will always give us clarity. The thought of me having anxiety did perplex me at first, but with the headaches, the shortness of breathe, the rapid thoughts, the nausea, and irritability, it was starting to make sense. Doctors, and philosophers, are among the best examiners of humans-he confirmed what my body had been
telling me all along.

When I arrived back home, in my claustrophobic little basement room, I couldn’t have been more relaxed. After undressing, I put my poor little, soiled pink 't' into the hamper this time. Lying down, I reflected on the two things that I learned. I had anxiety and I need more 'pink' in my life.