Magenta was my favourite Crayola when I was a kid.

I can remember pushing the last little nub of it around with my finger. It was always hard to find in the  cookie tin that held all the old crayons. I loved lifting the lid to inhale that waxy smell of potential.

There were bits of  striped paper that had ripped off from the various crayons. Those stray bits of paper mixed into the crayon log jam of all those different lengths and colours. The brown and black crayons kept their paper wrappers the longest.

But that gorgeous pinky/purple magenta was always gone way before its time; sacrificed because of its exploding colour, its wild abandon and dynamic vibration, its complete non-Mennoniteness.

I don’t want to give a false impression that we were raised in a household of black smocks and plain A-line dresses.

Au contraire…in fact, my mother went so far as to take the Stretch ‘n Sew class that was all the rage in the early 70s and even made me navy blue hotpants. Look out. Though mine were a little longer than was fashionable, I still managed to at least fake an edge of grade seven cool…or so I thought. 

I’ve been thinking about colouring lately – or more correctly; about colouring outside the lines – about disturbing the accepted social construct and about not caring whether other people approve of me or not.  

I’m not thinking of anyone or anything specific, it’s just that I’ve noticed this newfound relief from something I didn’t even know was there. There is this fifty-thing going on that grants me permission to speak, really speak my mind.

Writing has helped. Many times after I hit publish, I also hit my internal cringe button as I wonder at how much I’ve revealed, but that too, has become easier to accept with an, “Oh well…”

I don’t want to use this new voice to hurt anyone or to use it as an excuse that ‘this truth is good for you’ that people have sometimes used on me for my perceived benefit.

No, I’m talking about more general experiences like a recent encounter in a photo shop. Long story, and no names will be disclosed, but I thought I was being very patient until the final insult that included me paying for their admitted screw-up.

Uh Sorry. There was a time when I would have maybe swallowed that and fumed all the way home…No more.

I’m beginning to think that I should perhaps come with a warning now, perhaps a little badge that says,

“Don’t F#&* with Me – I’m 50.”

I explained to that manager in very clear and clipped tones that I’d been more than patient, that was NOT how it was going to go and they would deliver the photos requested to me at this very minute and I would NOT be charged.

It was awesome. Moments later I had my pictures, paid no money and felt like I could have run up a mountain with breath to spare.

I am all about spreading peace and good intentions but please don’t push me too far. 

 I don’t think this is a particularly new phenomenon. Check out the photo I’ve used here. I took this in a church in a small town in Hungary. I’d add in the name if I had a clue where it was.  

But here’s the thing; look at that woman’s face.  I bet ya anything that she’s wearing my aforementioned badge under her robe…she just has a look about her that says stay out of my way.