Sick is slick.

Pink baseball bats.

Pink hockey pucks.

Pink barbecue tools.

It used to be if you wanted a military exemption you showed up to your physical in pink underwear; today would anyone be surprised if our soldiers were handed pink grenades?

The Komen approach to securing funding and eyeball time has produced one of the most ubiquitous and frankly, in your face, marketing campaigns that is shattering the way dollars are raised for alleviating human suffering and tragedy.

Its time those of us with kids on the spectrum get up to speed and ditch the old “soft-peddle” of colorful brochures and sappy, pleading copy: “YOU can be the difference between a happy child and one who sits alone in the dark!”

We need to own a color of our own (Purple anybody?)

We need something more dramatic than a puzzle-shaped car magnet to get our message out.

We need a pitchman who can sell our story to the world and put Autism and Coke “within arms reach.”

We need a Billy Mays infomercial that touts the positive features of having a kid on the spectrum.

“But wait! There’s more! Included with your highly sensitized bundle of  joy is a brilliant mind waiting to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world!

He itches. He tantrums. He won’t laugh at your jokes. But he will always show up for dinner at exactly the right time…every time!”

Or perhaps, if you prefer something far less contrived, why not tout the money saving features?

That’s right.

I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t had a personal experience the other day. Given the tens of thousands we have thrown at this “problem,” who would’ve ever thunk my Asperger son could actually put money back in my pocket?

Here is what happened.

For a few months we’ve been in the market for a new raincoat for our sixteen year-old.  We were together yesterday as we passed a bustling thrift store where I have found some incredible bargains, and had the time and money to try our luck.

Normal, everyday shopping is a major sensory overload for me and an activity I am loathe to do unless I know the layout of the store and exactly what I am looking for. Every time our Target rearranges their floor plan, let’s just say it takes me days to adjust and settle down. I’ve been known to get lost for hours of aimless wandering while filling up a cart with dozens of items I really don’t need.

“Everything 50% off!” The store banner screamed as we walked through the doors and into a raucous world teeming with ethnicity and the rank of cumin and fried onions.

There was no smoke in the air, but you would have sworn I was high on something, that’s how quickly I lost focus and got swept away by the exciting prospect of leaving this bazaar with hundreds of dollars in great deals under my arms, all on the cheap.

“Where are the raincoats?” My son’s monotone voice broke through the noise and mental clutter.

“Right over here, in the aisle next to the… WETSUITS” I exclaimed, my heart quickening as the fog returned.

Wow! I’ve always wanted a wetsuit!

“How does this look?” He drawled as he tried on the first of two possibilities.

I was deeply lost in the feel of the wetsuit running through my fingers while my eyes spied several pairs of snow bibs we absolutely MUST get for the kids.

He managed to grab my attention and we both agreed that neither raincoat was “him.” (Ha! Even an Aspie kid has fashion sense.)

Finished with his mission he refused to allow me to drag him down more aisles in search of OTHER opportunities. Nothing, not one-dollar video games, not damaged editions of the latest books or loads of toys were able to sway his attention.

“We didn’t come here for this.” Was his response to everything. And he was right. That wetsuit will just have to wait a little longer.

We got back to the car before the station took their next commercial break.

“And if you act now, we’ll throw in a good dose of stubbornness at no extra cost to you! Think of the money you’ll save with one of these babies!”

I think I will take him out and buy him a super-sized Slurpee to celebrate!

LJ