Sometimes,
I feel superhuman. Mostly because of what’s projected back to me about me. I
think I’m a pretty sensitive, needy, softie. Don’t believe me? Watch me interact
with my nieces, nephews or goddaughters. Or any kids for that matter. All that
developmental stuff goes out the door. My singular priority becomes their
smile. Seeing their cute lil’smile.
But,
that’s not really who I am (to people). I’m Wonder(ous) Woman! I’m not afraid
of anything. I can do everything. Tears? Tears are for suckas (not really, just
making a point). And above all, I am not vulnerable.
Only,
that’s probably what I am, mostly. Vulnerable. I’m the most fragile thing I
know. Consistently in danger of breaking. Vulnerable just looks a little
different on me. You might not see my cry. Or have an emotionally charged
outburst. Or call you for closure. That’s never been me. Maybe I would be more
emotionally balanced if I did those things, but, it’s not my style. So, the
question becomes, when will you see my vulnerable?
Ice.
Skating.
What
person, clearly high on some illegal substance, invented this? I know how it
happened. There was a group of them smoking said substance, eating cheetos, and
acting like Introduction to Philosophy students discussing the meaning of motor
oil and tooth picks. Someone was looking for a knife to spread some peanut
butter on a piece of fried chicken skin because they eat all the same color
foods together, and slipped and fell. Then they thought to themselves, “I bet I
would have been able to keep my balance if I strapped this butter knife to my
Timberland work boots.”
Yep.
That’s the etymology of ice skating.
I
had no plans to skate on ice. None. I attended this event to hang out with
friends, have a few laughs, and watch other people fall down. Maybe get a
picture or two of said “falling” and look cute in my winter scarf and gloves. Those
were my goals.
How
did I get on the ice? A challenge. All it takes is a competition. “Oh, so you
scared?” … “Don’t tell me you can’t ice skate?!” …and the statement that had me
in line requesting size 10’s: “You’re just gonna punk out, huh?”
Peer
pressure is the last pair of Jessica Simpson heels you’ve been looking in store
and online for, only to find…for full price. Of course I bought them.
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| #RealTears&Prayers |
And
I’m on the ice. Only, I don’t know how to ice skate at all. I have some rhythm
(it’s genetic) but seeing that I have fallen down attempting to stand up, I
didn’t get an A in balance. Balance happens to be the one skill needed to ice
skate. Or ice shuffle. Or ice stand. Or just be physically out on the gottdamn
ice whilst holding on to the side.
But
I’m a competitor. So I fought through every inclination to get off the ice and
find a seat in the bleachers huddled with the smarter
people. How did I get around on the ice? I hate you asked. Well, I did a
couple of laps holding on to the side. Waiting for little kids clearly
practicing for the Ice Capades to pass, cringing at grown ups with "coverage" #ChrisRock falling down
(Lord don’t let it be me!), and praying. Lots and lots of Dear Father God in
Heaven’s were prayed that day.
Then
my friend. A guy (stay with me, there’s always a guy) saw me probably praying and clearly searching (without movement on the ice) for the exit. About to give up. He held my hand and encouraged me around the ice. He was in
awe that there was this thing, this particular activity that showed him a
proverbial birth mark he never believed to be on my brown skin. Vulnerability. I
was born vulnerable. Who knew? What’s more, was his reaction: Shock. It shocked
him to see me that way. I’m Wonder(ous) Woman, remember? That's what he projects back to me.
 |
| There. Is. Nothing. Fun. About. This. |
But he kinda liked it. #NoRingOnIt Me. Vulnerable.
Shortly
thereafter, he saw me on a bench ready to hurl the first ice skate off my foot
at someone.
I
hope he got a screenshot of that. Of me, vulnerable. It ain’t happening again,
boss.
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