Sharp Elbows

I was disappointed to find the fabric of my favorite sweater so worn at the elbow I could see skin. Wool. Soft and gray. And, it’s a Prada, a castoff from a daughter who bought it at consignment store. Now I have to find a way to mend it. I love the sweater that much.

The sweater is the second top that recently has suffered the same fate, which leads me to believe I have sharp elbows. Not so good for clothes but a useful trait if you’re a journalist. Having sharp elbows has served me better under those circumstances.
The term sharp elbows sounds like a person will fling elbows to force their way into a situation. You know: get out of my way or you’ll get jabbed. I’d like to think a person is tough when the situation warrants it.
So-called sharp elbows got me a private tour of nuclear power plant that was on the verge of being shut down. I got into meetings already pronounced closed. I’ve knocked on doors, uncertain the person on the other side would let me in for an interview or give me a comment for a story, but they did. 

I prefer to slither with confidence. I stay quiet but determined. I want to look like I belong.

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