As I move ever closer to the eve of my surgery and my new role as "fake boob girl part deux: the legend of curly's gold", I think about the labels that cancer slaps on a person (sick, dying, diseased, fragile, bald) and how, from the days of shunning the ubiquitous Club Monaco sweatshirts of my junior-high youth, I effing hate labels.
I know it's not very fergilicious of me to not want to tote around a bag that yells Coach!! And some of the wellness babes I look up to would likely think I was a puss for not wearing my "vegans do it better" t-shirt. But I'm pretty okay with that. Even if I decided to never eat another egg or fairy-thin slip of prosciutto again, I would not, could not don the label.
I don't want to be part of any tribe other than the one that lets me read, think, watch, say, eat and do what I want. I'm figuring out this stuff for me and my family, and although I know the community aspect is important, it makes me wary. This is why I love Victoria. Your neighbours will help you out without a moment's hesitation but ultimately, they stay out of yo bidness. Like all the best parts of a small and big city wrapped up in a lovely package.
So yeah, I'm looking for like-mindedness, and people on a similarly questioning path, but I ain't wearing no damn Club Monaco sweatshirt, y'all.