cakewalk

Kicking off my shoes and socks, I look down at my right foot. There are two parallel 1-inch incisions across the top.

“Huh,” I say, reaching down and poking one. “Cool.”

I cannot decipher the origin of the cuts, but that doesn’t really bother me. I just think, ‘That would be a damn nice scar,’ before flopping down on my bed to catch the tail end of a Star Trek Voyager episode.  But my foot is right in front of me; I can’t stop staring at it.

This happens every time I am nicked or bruised.  If my arm brushes against blackberry bush thorns, my hike may be delayed for several minutes: I must pause and blink, holding out my arm and admiring the insult.

But, right now, more important than the wound is the mystery. Did I catch my foot in a chip bag clip? A villain could have sewn razor blades into my shoe. Or, a mystic might have bewitched my shoelaces into whips!

I see conspiracy and political agendas everywhere.

Against my feet.

…

Dude. That’s the best I can come up with?

Having missed Star Trek, I find myself watching Mulan. She reminds me that I’m female and that I don’t “really” want scars, even from battle.

Raising my eyebrows, I telepathically communicate the word “skank” right back. Her song falters. “Bitch,” I send. “And your pores are huge!” This is when she sheers off her hair and starts cross-dressing; I feel guilty.

But her message remains: being female means that my skin is supposed to stay smooth. It’s supposed to stay sensual.

Still staring at my foot, I coo, “I really hope you scar,” and flip the channel.

It is 3AM and the pain in my knees is keeping me awake.

I roll over and flail for my glasses, knocking a pen, my alarm clock, and a bottle of body moisturizer off the bed-stand. Cringing as all three crunch into a bag of Salsa Verde Doritos, I barely catch my glasses as they too attempt a suicide dive.

“I can’t afford to replace you!” I remind them, shaking them a little too vigorously.

My vision right now is 20/600. My back-up glasses are 20/400. So if my current pair break, I would be blind for several weeks until a new pair arrived.

I pat my glasses apologetically and put them on. I know who’s boss.

Still half asleep, I stumble through books, piles of paper, and empty Mountain Dew cans. “Frik,” I mumble, tripping over a nest of phone and printer cables. “I’ma light ya on fire some day.”

I stop.

“I’ma light ya on fire some day?”

What the fuck?

I emerge from clutter and chaos five minutes later, rummaging for a hot water bottle in the upstairs bathroom.

Waiting for the tap to run, well, hot water, I slouch to the ground and stare at my knees: swollen and slightly bruised. ‘You aren’t my knees,’ I think. ‘Bad knees, go away.’ They are disinclined to obey.

Having spent the last four months primarily in front of my television and computer, I don’t know what I was expecting. That my legs still had the stamina to stand for that long? Yeah. Probably. I mean, DUDE – four hours. Four.

“This is fucking embarassing,” I say, still staring at my knees.

With the hot water bottle resting on my legs, I do eventually fall back to sleep. I awake some five hours later, pain free.

And there is a spring in my step.

Crap.