Years back, my dear friend Annie gave me the nickname Pollyanna. As our friendship grew the endearment was truncated to Polly. While the moniker was offered with love, I accepted it with some trepidation because, to me, it seemed to come with a modicum of derision. In between the wry smile and tinge of jealousy was the suggestion that maybe I was in deep denial. I bore the chiding with a happy smile, as any good Polly would, but just below the surface was a touch of embarrassment, like maybe I was delusional and everyone knew it but me. In response to the good-natured mocking, I'd quip, “Yes, I broke my leg and