Uh oh

I totally forgot that I was supposed to write because I had to rush home from work to get to an appointment for a massage. And then after the massage I felt so relaxed that I forgot about everything except walking the dog and collapsing into bed.

It could have been worse

Today I was supposed to be in New York City, not sitting on the floor of my living room in Shaker Heights. In April I signed on with the Alliance for a Healthier Generation, a non-profit group that is working to reduce the incidence of childhood obesity, to run the New York Marathon.

But then on July 7, eight-tenths of the way through a 10-mile training run, my right leg started to hurt. Badly. Every step was more painful than the last. I made it home and into the shower. An hour later, I couldn’t put any weight on my right foot.

The rest is history. I was out for the summer with an acute stress fracture of the tibia. I was in an AirCast and on crutches for almost 10 weeks. I was depressed. I gained weight. My right leg shriveled up.

To say it was the worst summer of my life is not inaccurate, but I realize how privileged and entitled I sound saying it. I am (sort of) young, incredibly healthy, and I’ve never known real, prolonged suffering. I don’t have cancer or rheumatoid arthritis or diabetes or any other chronic health condition (other than a lazy thyroid gland, but it's easily treated with one pill)—and I’ve totally recovered from my injury. I’m well educated and prosperous. I decide what to have for dinner, not whether I can afford dinner.

Still, I’m pretty disappointed today. But I think I'll survive.

Disappointed

When I was small, I was even more of a tomboy than I am now. Really, I would have preferred to have been a boy. Boys got to do fun stuff, and girl stuff was just…stupid. Boys wore Tuff-Skin jeans and played with toy guns and had pocketknives and rode BMX bikes. Girls wore dresses and barrettes in their hair and played with dolls.

In the second grade I met Juliette Boudreaux, who was, like me, a tomboy. She had three or four older brothers and she wore blue jeans and ringer t-shirts and played with Star Wars toys. She also was an inveterate talker and self-promoter. She was forever going on about how tough she was and how many boys she’d beaten up and so on. I was instantly enamored. I thought she was so cool! It wasn’t until later, in fourth and fifth grade, that I understood my status as a misfit and felt the urge to retaliate with violence against the kids who tormented me. (Not that I did. Once I hit a black-haired, fair-skinned boy named Jeremy in the jaw with my closed fist, and the blow merely glanced off him with little effect, and he continued to mock me.) But even then I think I felt a certain envy toward someone who exerted herself through physical power.

A few months into our friendship, Juliette and I convinced our moms to arrange a sleep-over. My mom dropped me off at her house, which smelled vaguely of bacon and maple syrup. On Saturday morning we went outside to play in fresh snow, and when our fingers and toes were frozen we made our way back to the house. Juliette’s mom met us at the door.

Our nylon parkas were covered with powdery clumps of snow. Juliette took off her hat, and her mom took it and flicked it at Juliette’s sleeves and chest, brushing off the snow. But she was careless, and the hat stung Juliette on the cheek. And then! Juliette started to cry!

I stared at her in disbelief. I was horrified. And so disappointed. What a baby! The hat had barely touched her. Suddenly, the veil was lifted. This little girl I’d thought was so great…wasn’t.

And you know, to this day, the feeling is the same. When I suddenly—or even gradually—discover that someone isn’t what I thought they were, my disappointment is every bit as profound. It’s like being in the second grade all over again.

It's November!

Besides being the month of my birth, and the month in which a bunch of dudes grow as much facial hair as possible for a dubious “cause,” November is the month of NaBloPoMo, which stands for...I forget. I think it’s National Blog Posting Month. I always wanted to participate but was too lazy and undisciplined. And let’s be clear, I still am lazy and undisciplined. But lately I’ve been wanting to write more, and not just the crap I spew in my paper diary.

So, let’s get to it.*

*Oh, dear, what have I done?