Don't Tell Me to Stop Saying 'Don't'

In "Funny Girl," Barbra Streisand sings, "Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter," and then she orders bystanders not to bring around a cloud to rain on her parade. In a break-up song, Mick Jagger cajoles a partner with, "Don't get angry with me." In another intimate argument, singer Dionne Warwick instructs a lover: "Don't make me over."

Another notable musical artist — the late Jim Croce — offered a litany of "don'ts" in "You Don't Mess Around with Jim." He cautions us not to "tug on Superman's cape, spit into the wind" or "pull the mask off that old lone ranger." (Go on, sing it. I'll wait.)

I have no musical gifts, but I'm increasingly good at blurting out "don't." My diplomacy skills and conversational filters have faded with each passing year, and at 76, I find saying "don't" is a satisfying way to express a resounding "no."

Recently when I was offered an anti-aging facial, I replied, "Don't bet on that — you're too late." (That got a big laugh from the aesthetician.) Also, on the topic of aging, when I objected to my doctor's opinion that my leg sprain needed more than four days to heal, he countered with, "You are no spring chicken." (Don't those get eaten first? Maybe being a tough old bird has some advantages.)

Some taxi drivers would disagree with my doctor's fowl assessment. When I mention that I need a few minutes to exit the car because I'm old, some will insist that I am young.

"Don't say that," I reply. "I have more years behind me than ahead of me." Once, the misguided flattery caused me to snap, "I am at least twice your age, and I'm OK with that."

Another day, after I upbraided a 20-something driver for calling me "young lady," he apologized. "As soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back," he said. "Last week, another older woman yelled at me for saying the same thing, and I'm trying to break the habit." That was a teachable moment, and I tipped him.

A teachable moment that ended differently occurred a month ago in a shoe store. Looking to replace my sneakers, I asked to see the latest styles offered by my favorite brand. The clerk emerged from the stock room with a pair of pink tennis shoes. I hate pink.

To clarify: I love pink in sunsets and flowers, I like pink powder blush and I have nothing against the singer/songwriter Pink. To me, the color pink is a pale, washed-out hue assigned to baby girls, and even in 2024 some misguided individuals expect those babies to grow up to be submissive women. To my mind, raspberry is vibrant and red rules, but pink stinks.

I especially hate pink in October, which is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. (Hold your fire. I've had breast cancer twice, so I can say that.) I'm not the only one who feels this way. In a recent blog post, Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles noted that some survivors and their family members view the plethora of pink ribbons (and shirts, kitchen appliances, socks, hats, earrings, and so on) as triggers, and find them "more disquieting than comforting."

In her insightful book "Smile or Die: How Positive Thinking Fooled America and the World," the late Barbara Ehrenreich called this pinkification an "infantilizing trope." (Here's an excerpt.) To me, the commodification of the color — along with the attempt to "prettify" a horrible disease — is just wrong.

Did I go into my full-tilt rant in the shoe store? No. I asked to see sneakers in gray or black or white or even rowdy turquoise, anything instead of pink. The clerk, a very young man, said, "But all women love pink shoes."

I took a deep breath. Then, probably too loudly, I said, "Don't ever again assume that every woman loves any one thing. We are individuals, with different tastes, and this particular woman hates pink." And I walked out in my old shoes.

Remember when the late Dame Maggie Smith, in her role as Lady Violet Crawley on "Downton Abbey," asked in all sincerity, "What is a weekend?" That's where my mind goes immediately whenever someone chirps, "Have a nice weekend!" For many retirees, our days are interchangeable, so I want to respond with "Don't say that. It doesn't apply to me." Most often, I manage to mutter, "You, too."

Who among us likes to be told what to do? Once — and never since — I suggested that a friend needed to do this or the other thing in her troubling situation. Icily, she retorted, "I can determine my own needs." Recognizing a big "don't," I backed off right away.

When someone remarks that I'm repeating myself, I'd like to say this: "Don't tell me I've told this story before. You may need to hear it again, I may need to hear it again or maybe the story just bears repeating." Usually, if the conversation is among family members, I say, "Oops," and change the subject.

That's not the case when friends my age yammer on about the glories of our so-called golden years. Sometimes I bark, "Don't call it that. This 'golden' time is too often tarnished by loss." We get that illness or death is the natural order of things, but the news always hurts, and the tally seems to mount week after week. I see dead people, too many, in my tattered address book, but can't seem to cross out their names.

Imagine being young and wishing to be old. I bought Gail Sheehy's updated classic, "New Passages: Mapping Your Life Across Time," for a 40-something friend so she could better understand her stage of adulthood. After she read it, she told me she can't wait for the serenity that comes at 60. I yelled, "Don't wish away your time on the planet!" Yep, I'm that cranky friend.

Stephen Sondheim's song "Everybody Says Don't," from his show "Anyone Can Whistle," ironically insists that we disregard rules and "disturb the peace, walk on the grass, fight city hall, laugh at the king and make a noise." The last directive is my favorite. When a store clerk ignores me or another customer pushes ahead of me, I speak right up. "Don't pretend you don't see me here," I say. "I left my invisibility cloak at home."

The one place I pack away my "don'ts" is at my grandson's Little League games. Before each one, an announcer reminds us San Francisco Bay Area parents and grandparents that we must chill out, noting pointedly, "This is not Dodger Stadium." Usually, we obey, except for the occasional sotto voce grumbling about an umpire's call.

Also, most often, we all cheer for every player, calling out "Good pitch" or "Great play," regardless of which team's shirt the kid is wearing. Don't tell me that's wrong!

Patricia Corrigan is a professional journalist, with decades of experience as a reporter and columnist at a metropolitan daily newspaper, and also a book author. She has written for Next Avenue since February 2015. Read more from Patricia at latetothehaight.blogspot.com. Read More