Because, Lord knows, I can't leave well enough alone.
There was a question on The WVSR today about nicknames, and what yours are or what the really mean ones you've given other people are. I obligingly supplied some of the ones I've created and some of those given by me to others. One of them, if you went to the website and read the comments and found mine (which I'm SURE you all did post-haste once mention of it was made), refers to the moniker "Pinky," which was an attempt by a high school dork to saddle me with a much-unwanted nickname about a certain body part.
I feel the need to tell y'all how it really went down, because unless I tell the whole story you're going to think bad things about me, and I can't have that before I leave for 5 days and you're allowed to talk amongst yourselves.
So, to put paid to this story, here goes:
Setting: Tennis class, 9th grade.
I was sweating like a pig on the court and turning the very attractive shade of red I usually do when I'm participating in physical activity. I had dripping wet hair, a soaked-through shirt, and, as it just so happened, a supportive undergarment that did NOT have the completely opaque quality necessary when one has sweat through the white t-shirt one has chosen to wear that day to gym class (the gymsuits alluded to in an earlier post were not used by this time, more's the pity).
My 15-year-old male opponent said to me - "Hey, I bet I can guess what color your nipples are! They're pink! Right? I think I'll call you Pinky from now on! Hey Pinky, hit the ball over here, Pinky! C'mon, you can serve better than that, Pinky! Over here, Pinky!"
See, he thought he was being clever.
Until I started calling him "Tiny."
(Lesson - never mess with the girl who was called "the most cynical person she'd ever met" by her 8th grade English teacher. She will step all over your punk ass in the comeback department, especially when she's backed into a corner by overwhelming embarrassment)
Somehow, years later, I didn't mind the suppositions so much. There was one occurrence wherein my arrival at a party was greeted with "brown or pink?" Apparently the host and his girlfriend were taking a poll. By that time, thankfully, I'd gotten comfortable with the idea of HAVING body parts about which conversations could be had or questions could be asked, and so volunteered the info willingly. Had to - they weren't going to let me at the beer until I did!
Now you know. I'm sure you were wondering.
'Til next week then!