Eight years ago today my life took a dramatic turn. I had been eighteen for two days and America was generally in shock over the Columbine shootings. I was ecstatic because the Ass-Fucks of the Honors Lane had completely stopped bullying me AND I had a rock climbing gym pass. You know what I'm talking about. I must have approached light speed because time slowed: I had enough time to enjoy the acceleration, realize what was happening, and calmly accept my impending death. My last thought was almost "So this is how I die." Then time returned to normal and the screaming began. I remember feeling embarrased because I had never been so loud and I couldn't make myself shut up. Someone asked me to wiggle my toes and I couldn't. I could see them but they wouldn't respond. Those bitches completely ignored me. Finally the left big toe waved "Yo." One of the EMTs happened to be my brother's friend that I had met days earlier. I did not see him again until the Anthrax/Rob Zombie concert last year and I was wearing the same pants. The X-ray technicians found a rock on the stretcher. I still have it, I named my rock Lucky and he lives in a tiny purse with the bloodstone ring MacGyver gave me the night I realized I would marry him.
April 24th is the one day a year when any body issues I have are completely moot. This is the day I feel deservedly shallow wishing I could be thinner or stronger or prettier or taller or an artist's model or a model for Mountain Gear catalogue. This is the day I wear sandals and watch my toes wiggle every chance I get. This is the day I am astounded that I can see and walk and swim and climb trees and jump-kick and shut up whenever I choose. This day I marvel all the more because I have studied anatomy and neuroscience and I know how complex and beautifully my body works. This day feels like a second birthday.
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