Kyle

I think every teenage girl should have a Kyle in her life.  He's the big, warm, funny guy you want as a best friend in high school. He gives up football, which he's good at, to join chorus and theater. He loves shopping and talking on the phone, extracurricular activities, and making people laugh.

Kyle has an opinion about everything. He is involved in student government, the high school newspaper, yearbook, musicals, and anything else he can pencil in. His favorite teacher is Senora Finnegan. Even after we are done taking all our required Spanish classes and state tests, he eagerly signs up for an elective Spanish class she is offering to Juniors. Kyle gets me to sign up too. Senora is always wearing big, busy colorful prints and moving about the classroom fluidly while playing soft Spanish Flamenco dance music on her small CD player in the back of the room. The room is decorated with vibrant student-made and store-bought posters. The wide open shelves are full of half-finished projects, construction paper, and various crafting decorations and utensils. One day in particular, Senora opens up class by delivering a somewhat sad, Spanish soliloquy that relates to her personal life. I don't understand all of it, but I can tell that something sad happened. Kyle is moved to tears, goes through an entire box of Kleenex, and whispers a translation to me once he pulls himself together.

Kyle gets worked up about everything: people, movies, news, politics. His emotional side is both confusing and contagious. He is more alive than anyone I know. He gossips about certain people more than others. He cracks jokes in class, here or there, just loud enough for anyone seated next to him in class to hear, and just funny enough to laugh and forget about it afterwards.  No one ever gossips about Kyle. He's generally loved by all, though he doesn't go to parties. Instead, he invites other non-party-goers to his house, and with him there, it's a party. No alcohol necessary.

Fast forward fifteen years. Kyle is a hundred pounds lighter and works for the entertainment industry. He lives in NYC and wears great designer glasses. His wife is a beautiful younger lawyer chick, at least from what I could see on Facebook before Kyle blocked me. I sent him a few desperate "forgive me please" FB emails before he clicked block. But some things can't be forgiven.

From my earliest recollection of Kyle in eighth grade, I thought he was snobby. I didn't get his personality. He seemed so apathetic to others around him, so self-consumed, whispering often into someone's ear or rolling his eyes while mumbling something out-loud to himself. It was weird. I was perplexed. Doesn't he realize other people can see and hear him? He would stretch out his giant back and big arms and dip his head backward in his chair and moan during the middle of a teacher's lecture or a test, displaying the agony of Edvard Munch's Scream, then quietly collect himself and go back to working on the task at hand.

He was often walking the halls with his girlfriend Julie. But in ninth grade Julie broke up with Kyle for a guy named Jesse. Ironically, I had chosen Jesse as my future husband in Mr. Keniston's eighth grade science class when we did an experiment. I was sad when Julie dated Jesse, but Jesse had a twin brother so I told myself I'd settle for either twin. It never happened. Neither twin had any interest in me beyond some occasional flirting. And I never thought of Kyle romantically, even after a friendship began that year. I wondered why this pretty, athletic girl Julie dated Kyle at all, given he was so strange and she seemed so normal. This intrigue birthed my first affections for Kyle. I wanted to learn more about this dynamic character.

By the end of ninth grade, I was walking the halls with Kyle daily. We were inseparable. We talked on the phone most nights. He complained about his step-dad, who I thought was great. Ron. Ron gave me a WWII packaged lunch that never got opened. I have it to this day. It's probably worth money, but I'll never sell it. And Kyle's mother was so pretty and sweet. He had two older sisters he didn't talk to much, and a slightly younger brother he made fun of sometimes.

I worked at McDonald's and sneaked him extra fries and sometimes milkshakes. Sometimes we ate together. I liked his smile, his hair, his charm, his witty conversation, and warm companionship.

In tenth grade I went through one of several cigarette-smoking phases. Kyle never smoked. Everyone else across the street from the bus semi-circle did though, so I thought it was okay. It was on one particular damp, Spring day that I was jonesing for a cigarette while walking to McDonald's with Kyle. I saw butts all around, but most of them were wet. I finally found a dry, half-smoked Camel, and bent down to pick it up and light it. Kyle tried to rip it out of my hand. I tried to explain it was perfectly good, and wasteful not to smoke it. He told me he could never talk to me again if I lit and smoked it. I lit it and smoked it anyhow.

Kyle was disgusted with me then, but he eventually got over it. Yet I continued to disgust him. During senior year I ditched our morning hallway walks together to make out with my boyfriend in the elevator shaft. I had never dated anyone before. This happened every morning for about three weeks straight. Then the boyfriend dumps me and senior prom is only a few months away. Kyle, though disgusted at my behavior with the bf, asks me to prom. I am shocked and dumbfounded. It seems like senior prom should be for romantic couples. I play it cool and tell Kyle I am holding out for Jason Fuller.

Not so cool. Jason doesn't ask me, Kyle's feelings are hurt, and I feel like a moron. But Kyle waits until prom is only two weeks away and entices me in his charismatic way. I reluctantly agree. It turns out to be the best night of my life. I feel bad for not agreeing sooner. It's so much fun. Especially planning our outfits. We wear matching bumble-bee themed dress and suit, with bumblebee corsages and bees worked into my hairdo. Kyle spikes his hair and dyes the tips bright yellow, and carries a black cane with yellow duct tape circled around as stripes. He gets me to dance to a few songs, always using his cane as a prop, though we mostly hang out by the punch bowl as he points out fashion sense fails. He can't contain his laughter at so-and-so's outfit or dance moves. Neither can I.

Prom ends. I go to a dumb party.  Maybe Kyle goes too. I don't know. I probably make out with some random dude and get a cab to my friend Amanda's before passing out completely. I really don't remember. Then we graduate and go off to college.

I decide to email Kyle once during my Freshman college year, after ignoring a few emails from him. I guess we kind of drifted apart. His college was across the state, and his place in my life was reduced to a little black and yellow picture frame perched on my dorm room dresser.

As I sit down to email Kyle after almost an entire year of college has gone by, I feel awkward about not making more of an effort to stay in touch. I need to break the ice. I have this great idea to jokingly email Kyle a picture of a guy in a Speedo looking all sexy. I find a ridiculous image that makes me laugh, and send it as an attachment. For whatever reason, Kyle is beyond disgusted. He is mortified. He lets me know so in his very brief and final email correspondence with me the following day.

We don't speak again during our college years. I forget about him for the most part. I see him jogging a few times during my college summer vacations. He is renting an apartment with a bunch of girls across the street from the restaurant where I waitress. I whistle and holler at him obnoxiously each time I see him jog by, and each time, he rolls his eyes and says nothing. Sometimes he puts out his hand as if to say hello, or shut up, I don't know. But he doesn't look at me and he doesn't say anything.

Eventually we have graduated from college, and lots of my high school friends are back in my home town celebrating with their families, sorting out internships and careers, and I decide to go into student teaching. At this point, I miss Kyle desperately and hope to run into him. We have so much to talk about now. So much time has passed. And I finally get my chance.

I'm at a local bar when I see his familiar face and sharpened jaw line. I almost don't recognize him because he has traded in his teddy bear physique for a thin, toned one. He is playing pool with a few other girls we'd gone to high school with. When I realize it's him, I leap from my bar stool and gallop to the other end of the bar with open arms to embrace him. He doesn't open his arms or look kindly at me, so I just run my finger down his shirt buttons and say, "You look amazing!"

He pokes me with his pointer finger between my collar bones and replies, "So am I good enough for you now?" He strains a smile then turns around and paces the other side of  the pool table, whispering and giggling, probably about me, to his little posse of girls.

This will be the last time I ever see or speak to Kyle. I don't know him anymore. I go back to my bar stool, do a shot of something, probably whiskey, with my sister, and we go home.

Food and Fatigue

I've been so tired lately. I'm drifting through the days half awake. The sun is setting earlier, and the nights are pleasantly cool. For the first time in a while I am snuggling under the covers and sleeping deep. I also stopped taking my thyroid medication two months ago. The side effects haven't been fun.

I've been sneaking in cat naps at work, usually in the morning after I bring the two older girls to school and the three-year-old is occupied with a movie or computer game back at the house. I refuse to self medicate with caffeine. When I lived in NYC, everyone walked around with a coffee, looking zombified and pale. I just don't want to sign up for that.  I did the Starbucks venti latte thing for a month this winter and I was immediately hooked. I loved it. The taste, the smell, the warmth, the thing to look forward to in the morning, and it's cocaine-like effect. But it drained my face of it's natural rosy hue and I would have energy crashes in the late afternoon. I don't miss it now, even when going through a tired spell.

I gained ten pounds this month too, incidentally the same amount of weight I lost while on my ten day juice fast last month. It might be time for another juice fast, but I want to enjoy the harvest of all the local farms in Southern RI beforehand. Afterward, I can still make juice with local produce, but for now I want to enjoy spaghetti squash, butternut squash, and sweet potatoes. I also bought some local buckwheat honey and another strain of honey from some rare flower that blows my mind, it's so good. I add it to my morning decaf green tea (a super cleanser). And I bought local maple syrup and gluten-free pancake mix. I want to experiment with pear sauce, eat my self-jarred cabbage (probiotic enzyme salad) and finish my leftover cabbage soup in the fridge, and enjoy maybe one more ice cream cone before the local dairy shop in town closes for the season. I had my favorite Thai meal last night, Tofu green curry extra spicy four pepper hot as hell (that is how I literally order it), and I dined alone, took pictures of my food and my sweaty face with running nose, and felt cleared of some constipation this morning. There's nothing quite like spicy food - especially in a Thai dish that uses sweet coconut cream. You get the sweet, salty, creamy and spicy all together. Lot's of vegetables. Brown rice on the side. And since there's no dairy or meat (the two top cancer causing foods), it's just fantastic, orgasmic, guiltless pleasure. Every bite is an experience, and I savor every second it's in my mouth.

I've been really enjoying dinnertime ever since learning, like most things in my life, that I've been misinformed. The food pyramid they teach you in school is bullshit. And breakfast is not the most important meal of the day. It's actually the most expendable meal of the day. Your body cleanses itself overnight, and your empty belly physiologically craves fruit in the morning. Just fruit alone. Anything else consumed with the fruit makes the fruit spoil. So I eat a banana or make a juice. Or both. And fruit digests very quickly - thirty minutes - so you need to consume it when your stomach is empty (in the morning) so that you don't cause a traffic jam. If you have cereal or toast and fruit, well, the fruit ends up behind the more dense food spoiling while the dense food takes a couple hours to digest. Have the fruit first. Wait a half hour. Then have something else if you need to.

One nice thing about being a babysitter is that I can bring my juicer to work. The little three-year-old gets a step stool and stands up to push the button and watch the juice fill the cups. She likes the apple juice but no other concoctions. She laughs at everything. I don't get what's so funny. But I enjoy her good humor. She's a very easy kid.

But I need to prepare for a thirty day juice fast. Before I know it, there will be Halloween candy, Thanksgiving dinner, and Christmas cookies. Maybe the best time to start a thirty day juice fast will be mid-October. I can do without the candy, and Thanksgiving is November 22nd. That gives me plenty of time to squeeze in thirty days before the doom of winter and it's fattening agents take effect.

I should also mention, in case anyone reads this, that juicing is horrible the first few days. You'll literally feel like you are dying, as your body suffers withdrawal from all the various drugs (processed food) you've been eating. You will have headaches, fatigue, depression, anxiety, and nauseousness. It's best to ween yourself off bad habits here and there before doing any kind of fast. I buy some gluten free snacks and bread occasionally, but haven't made the entire shift. I eat meat and dairy occasionally, but very rarely compared to just a couple years ago. I gave up caffeine, although it never was a long-term habit. I cut down on alcohol a lot. I used to have a drink or two (or more) most days of the week, since I lived with an alcoholic boyfriend, but now on my own, I forget to even think about alcohol most days. But if you want to know what self-taught and world-traveled nutritionists say about alcohol, they say that vodka is the least bad liquor, dark beer is the least bad beer, and red organic wine with no sulfates added is the best wine. I tried "no sulfates detected" organic red wine once and it was horrible. I stick to cold white wine and cosmopolitans, and if I want a beer, which is rare, I order a Guinness. It's like a meal in itself, and the froth is thick and creamy.

I have such an all-or-nothing personality that it's hard dieting. I can't tell you how many times I read a book or had a fat day and said "No More ___________ (fill in the blank, I've said it at least a hundred times)". But old wisdom is important. "Everything in moderation," is my new outlook. And my most important rule now is this: fruit in the morning, and nothing else. Your body uses energy to digest food, so the less energy you spend digesting a big morning meal, the more energy you have saved up for your day. Most of this extra energy is beautifying. Your inner cell walls cleanse themselves, and the sludge built up inside your intestinal lining gets broken down. If you have a lot of sludge, this sludge will have to pass through your bloodstream and may make you look ugly for the first few days, but after a few amazing bathroom experiences, you will feel and look like a new person. Fruit. Alone. In the morning. Try it. Have a banana. Eat half an avocado as a mid-morning snack. Incorporate a salad into your lunch. Before you know it, you'll be full by dinnertime and you can enjoy virtually anything you want at night because you will be full of fiber and won't be able to overeat anyhow. Chemically too, your belly will be alkalized and ready to take on any kind of acidifying crap. I prefer somewhat healthy crap, or small portions of super crappy food (like buffalo chicken pizza and blue cheese dressing - yum!), but you get my drift. Enjoy dinner. Your body will have all night to digest it, and you'll re-cleanse with fruit in the morning.

I recently started drinking a sea vegetable powdered drink mix called "Boku," and it has definitely stirred up some sludge in my body that my juicing has missed. My face looks aged and I've been constipated. But this is part of my ongoing effort to teach my body to use new foods. I think people give up on diets because they want immediate results and often it's one step back before the two steps forward.

I'm getting blood work done to test my thyroid, as soon as I save up a million dollars to pay for it since I don't have insurance, but I'm excited to experiment with healing my body naturally. I have a severely under-active thyroid, and my dosage is very high (.125 mg). The doctor had to raise the levels three times to get me normal. People with hypothyroidism often become obese and can qualify for all kinds of weight loss surgery. This scares me, but I grew up without the thyroid diagnosis and without the meds. Any normal person doing the exercise and healthful eating I do would weigh 100 lbs. I weigh close to 140. After I get my blood-work done, which will probably show my levels are dangerously low again, I'll go on a natural thyroid drug (they sell lots of them in the health food store, more than any kind of natural drug), and then I'll retest my thyroid levels and see if it makes a difference. So exciting!

It's so important we don't rely heavily on prescription medications. With my one med, Synthroid, I risked my thyroid becoming completely inactive someday (as it relies on the medication, and doesn't have to do it's own work, be it very crappy work it was doing in the first place, at least it was doing something). Thyroid problems run rampant in my family genes, and it would be nice to break the cycle. God forbid, the thyroid meds aren't available someday and I die from having an inactive, drug-dependent thyroid. There needs to be a safer way to self-treat. Going off the Synthroid has led to some weight-gain, increased hunger, and fatigue, but at least my body if forced to rely on itself.

Let me recommend a documentary to view. It's called "Forks Over Knives" - available on Hulu to watch for free. It's a documentary about The China Study. What you will learn about meat and dairy will help you cut down on it easily! At least for the most part. Parents should not be feeding their children cow's milk, nor any animal protein. Vegetables have sufficient protein, and too much calcium actually CAUSES bone disease such as osteoporosis. There is no animal cruelty stuff in this documentary, just pure science of what animal protein (casein) does to you. Told by two dairy farmers who studied medicine and became doctors who actually studied nutrition in their own free time. They had to completely let go of everything they'd believed in when they looked at the research about meat and dairy food. The government very deliberately propagated the need for meat and milk after WWII and with the boom of processed food, the government took over our health. And now they make money off the crappy genetically modified (non) food and the meat and dairy industry which gets us sick, on meds, and in need of surgery. As long as we're alive and feeling like crap, the government makes money. We can't avoid all the toxins in the atmosphere and water, and we can't avoid germs. I'm not talking about a Howie Mandel lifestyle. Just cutting back on foods that the government has lied to us about in order to make money.

Go grow a vegetable garden and make friends with some farmers and Amish people. You'll live longer and be happier. As long as you don't get struck by lightning or get run over by a car. That can always happen too, which is why I think a lot of people don't even care to try when it comes to being healthy. But regardless, just watch the film. You'll see.

The Baker Wing

It is 5:30 a.m. and my alarm sounds. I stretch an arm over the headboard to push a button, and roll out of my waterbed. Rubbing my eyes, I sit on the leather bed panel and rest the weight of my entire head into my palms and yawn. Today is the first day of eighth grade, in a new town, and I only have one friend, and I am nervous about this wing everyone is talking about.

I don't really understand the point of the wing even though everyone can't shut up about it. My dad started a non-denominational church here and the wing is a popular topic of discussion after church ends every Sunday. I'm roped into conversations with church people that seem dumb.

"So Erin, what do you think about that wing them there built?"

"I don't know. I heard it will be a longer walk, like for the cafeteria and stuff."

"Well God bless ya. The whole family. Your dad there's a good fella!"

I'm not sure I like this town, and I can't put up a fuss because my dad has his hands full with his new job, and my little sister is painting some psychotic red mural on her wall and playing loud obnoxious music, and occasionally screaming out, "I hate my life!"

God. My life sucks too, but not as much as hers. My mom wants to spend time with me, but I'm not done punishing her for something that happened before we moved. She refused to let me go to a middle school dance. My dad is to blame too, but somehow it's easier to punish my mother.

It wasn't just any old middle school dance. It was a very important, year-end dance for the seventh graders only. And I would be moving away the following week! This dance was the last big fun thing I could do with my friends. I imagined that they would secretly organize a farewell surprise party for me at the dance, with a film presentation depicting pictures from my childhood, and a farewell cake too. I envisioned a special slow dance to Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" with my crush at the time, Kris Casler, and maybe a second kiss with him. Our first was in second-grade.

I had good friends and memories at that school, and yet the last day of seventh-grade came and went like any other. My parents again said no to the dance, I packed up my belongings, and moved to the new town, just a thirty-minute ride away. I spent all summer giving my parents the silent treatment, and thinking about the dance I missed. That, and this new middle school wing I'd be a part of.

I don't know what the big fuss was. The wing supposedly does nothing other than contain the seventh and eighth graders. I liked the idea of my classmates being separated from their older peers, because it would force them to make new friends. New friends like me.

I collect my mostly pessimistic thoughts, shower and get ready to go face the day and the wing. I try on a few outfits and hate them all. I return to the bathroom to blow-dry my hair with extra care. It takes about forty-five minutes. My curls are so big and frizzy, it takes a diffuser and lots of Dep gel to tame them. Then I pull a dangerously hot curling iron down my unruly cowlicky bangs.

I put on some brown lipstick, and sneak some eye liner and mascara into my backpack just in case. Just in case I get to school and realize I'm the only girl in the whole school not wearing any. I pack a really unhealthy lunch, and go outside to wait for the bus.

At the bus stop there is a mentally challenged boy named Tedo. He's a few years older than me and wears thick coke bottle glasses. I am very polite and friendly to him, and we have an awkward conversation. Then out of the blue, Tedo leans down to kiss me, his mouth parted, and I can smell eggs. I back away and put my arm out to decline his kiss.

About two hundred years later, the bus finally comes. I find a seat by myself toward the back and watch for kids that look my age. Here comes one: thin, blonde, quiet, safe. Who else? The Whelan kids from our church. There are so many. But no one quite my age. And the little ones stay behind with their mom and wave. Cute. And at the next stop, it's a hot boy! Wow he lives right down the road from me, and he looks like Leonardo DiCaprio. Wow. I'm in heaven. I have to find out his name.

The bus driver's name is Chip. He picks up a few more kids, and drives us to school, talking over the loud speaker on the way, introducing himself and talking about bus safety. A smart alec kid named Bobby quietly echoes Chip, mocking him. The other kids laugh but I find it childish. Bobby is a moron.

When the bus pulls into the school, I get butterflies in my stomach. I get off and stand around watching others for a cue of when to go inside and what door to use. I'm hoping nobody looks at me. I stare at my class schedule, pretending to be preoccupied. Truthfully, it shouldn't be that hard to find my classes. After all, they are mostly contained in the wing.

Finally a bell rings and kids split up and enter two different ways. The older kids use the plain old main staircase at the front of the building. But everyone my age walks toward the side entrance, which at first consists of a very wide wheelchair ramp with concrete walls on either side and one sharp turn in the middle. Like cattle, we walk slowly up the ramp, elbow to elbow, turn, walk some more, and then we're at the door to the wing, all the seventh and eighth graders. 

Inside the wing there's a smell of newness. New concrete, chemicals, and paint. The teachers are standing in the hall next to their allotted classrooms, smiling. I ask one to help me find my locker, which she does, and then assigns a student to help me throughout the day. She introduces me to another new student, Amanda Larabie, and I feel relieved and not so alone anymore.

My first class is social studies, with Mr. Peroza. He seems alright. A little goofy and unknowable, but decent enough. He gets right to the point and goes over an agenda he's printed up for us. We sign out textbooks for the year. My book is so big and heavy, I hope I never have to carry it home.

Then I go to English, which is right next door. The teacher is old and she has so many things in her room that I feel claustrophobic. The walls are covered in posters with quotes I don't understand, as well as a combination of differently sized dry erase boards and a chalk board. There are separate work tables in the back and way too many filing cabinets spread all over.

The rest of the day is fairly uneventful, but I do make new friends. Everyone is really friendly and curious about me. The friendliest kids of all happen to be cute twin boys in my afternoon science class. I'm already looking forward to science class everyday because of them. I am super excited about Spanish class too, because I took Spanish last year at my old school but Spanish starts in eighth grade here. This will be easy. Senora Pescado (Mrs. Fish) gives me a Spanish name I dislike, Elena. I tell her I already have a Spanish name, given by my former Spanish teacher Senora Collier, and that name is Maria. Senora Pescado approves of the name and lets me keep it.

My last class of the day is math. I'm proud to be in the advanced section after scoring so high on a state test last year. The teacher is short and pleasant, and looks like the type of guy who should know a lot about math. I've always done well in math. This class should be a breeze.

The bell rings and I take the bus home and eat a bag of potato chips and watch t.v. all afternoon. The Baker Wing is a mystery no more. It wasn't a big deal to begin with. Really what concerns me is this "Tuesday/Thursday/Monday" vs. "Wednesday/Friday/Monday" weekly changing schedule. When people explain it to me, I get more confused. Hopefully I'll figure it out soon.

Embarrassing Moments

Happy Labor Day to me. I had the day off from work and took advantage. I went to some local farms and stocked up on seasonal produce: squash, sweet potatoes, cabbage, carrots, onions, tomatoes, and basil. I picked up some spinach, mustard greens, and cilantro from Stop & Shop, and also some Annie's All Natural Goddess Dressing (I highly recommend it!) I came home and made an amazing salad that will last all week. You should see it. It's so vibrant and full of living enzyme activity.

In addition to farm veggies and grocery store greens, I added sprouts, flax seeds, and avocado. I stretched out my dressing portion by adding fresh squeezed lime juice and a citrus-infused vinegar. I tossed the salad in a bowl with the dressing until everything was evenly covered and perfectly wet with citrus Goddess flavors.

I spent over an hour rinsing, peeling, and cutting all my produce so it's ready to use throughout the week for juicing, stir-frying, and roasting. Kind of a hassle. But so worth it.

At dusk I took a walk on the beach, found four pieces of sea glass, and stopped to watch seagulls dig up crabs from under the rocks. It was low tide. I saw several large striped bass fish carcasses left behind by fishermen. I pocketed a dried-out crab shell, completely intact with his little dehydrated legs and claws, body, and head. Maybe he got carried in by a large solitary wave and couldn't make his way back to the water in time to beat the heat of the sun. Poor little guy. He's on my dashboard now as a cute little decoration.

______________

I mentioned yesterday that I saw a great movie Friday night. Well Saturday night was cool too. I joined Mr. D and his three girls at a family BBQ in Mystic, CT. I indulged in potato chips, crackers, hummus, potato salad, a cheeseburger, green beans, and a home-made fruit pastry dessert.

Before dinner, I watched Mr. D playing baseball in the yard with his three girls. For about an hour, he and Grandpa D took turns pitching wiffle balls to the girls. Mr. D and Grandpa D. gave constant reminders of proper form. Elbow out! Eye on the ball! Great hit! Run! Safe!

The two older girls are only six and seven. I was impressed by how well they hit the ball. Mr. D asked me to take a few swings, and I said No. I had an embarrassing moment in middle school with swinging a bat. The girls don't yet know how important these skills will be later on in gym class, a place where the cool are separated from the uncool. It's fine to flunk a test or get in trouble with a teacher, but it's not never cool to suck at gym. 

When I was in sixth grade, gym class was awful. I would tell the P.E. teachers I had my period if I didn't like the activity. I should have done that when the softball unit began. We each lined up outside and took turns hitting a softball. The teachers pitched the balls underhand. I didn't think it would be all that hard to hit the ball. But they used a softball, and I was used to playing with a wiffle ball. We were given some posture instructions and told "swing hard." Everyone before me did a good job.

When it was my turn, I swung with all my might and did a three-sixty and face planted myself on the ground. I remember the popular girls looking wide-eyed at each other, and one girl named Sam Rushlaw awkwardly giggling and covering her face, as if embarrassed for me.

Sam went on to be a great softball player in high school. Good for her.

Luckily my parents moved away two years later, when I was in eighth grade. It was a nearby town, and I quickly made some new friends. They thought I was decent enough I guess. Until another embarrassing gym class moment.

I was walking around a dirt track behind the high school with my new friends. I saw some hurdles in the distance and got the urge to show off and jump over one. I'd never attempted a hurdle before. I don't know what made me think I could pull it off.

For whatever reason, I decided to go for it. I departed from my walking posse and started running a quarter lap to get momentum for the jump.

My first foot didn't even go over and I fell flat on my face. The hurdle fell between my legs and I just lay in the dirt for a while. My friend Kyle, who I'll devote a nice piece of writing to in a future blog, came and gave me a hand and helped me up. Others avoided eye contact with me for the rest of the day. It was just awful.

Most of my preteen memories have been forgotten, thank God. But it's not so easy to forget my teens and twenties, when I continued to run after things that were too big for me, and continued to fall flat on my face. I didn't calculate risks. I didn't consider consequences. I ran blindfolded. Like a moron. I didn't consider failure. I didn't think at all. Making mistakes that didn't have to be made. It's become the story of my life.

As much as I'd like to forget my awkward and clumsy twelve-year-old hormonal egocentric self, not much has changed. She's still in there, seeking attention, beckoning the world, "Look at me!" I'm still putting myself out there. Maybe I do have something to prove. I'm just not sure what it is yet.

Physical Comedy

I had a nice weekend. On Friday night I visited music friends who have an outdoor theater. They rented The Three Stooges movie, and five or six people came over and we sat around a fire and watched it.

At one point during the evening I felt a huge slimy thing on my leg. It was crazy. It was so huge and slimy I started screaming. In my hysteria I exclaimed there was an alien baby on my leg. People said it was probably a slug, but I'd already peeled it off and flung it somewhere. So I don't know.

The movie was great. The actors playing Moe, Curly, and Larry just nailed their roles. I really enjoyed Moe's character. He is an eccentric bully who fights others in very unconventional ways. His moves were ridiculous and inventive and mesmerizing. I laughed a lot.

There were old-fashioned sound effects used in the fight/scuffle scenes. They were like the sound effects used in Saturday morning cartoons from the 80's. It hyperbolized every pinch, poke, prod, hit, and kick, and whatever other unidentified stooge ninja tactic I saw.

I loved when Moe would get really annoyed by someone, and he would pinch inside that person's nose and pluck out a patch of hair instantly.

I have a new-found respect for physical comedy after seeing this film. I wonder how many times these actors had to rehearse each scene. I wonder how they kept in character throughout the nonsense. They were remarkable. 

While I'm on the topic of physical comedy, I'll give a shout out to Bryan Cranston for his role as Hal (the Dad) in Malcolm in the Middle. Cranston has played more serious roles since then, but I think he does physical comedy best.