Nosy Business

I think I was shorted. Sweat that one out, baby. What if I suddenly grew long? I do important things for you and get nothing but abuse in return. What's up with that? Up? Sweat that one out too; what if I decided to turn up and make you look like a pig?

Every reference to me is negative, and that gets old. Nosy butt, honker, beak, snorter, don't get your nose out of joint, keep your nose where it belongs (like I've ever left my post), keep your nose clean, and worst of all, put your nose to the grindstone. Do I deserve that? I may not be the brain, but I think not.

For years, I had the responsibility of carrying those coke-bottle glasses, not an easy job at all. (And, I might remind you, if your eyes had done their part, things would have been much easier on me.) Oh, but if I got tired, and slipped just a little, you weren't kind enough to remove the glasses, or even use your hands to gently put them were they belonged. No, you wrinkled me up and forced the plastic frames right back into the spot that hurt in the first place. Just once, I used to think, just once have a little respect for me.

Do you have any idea how miserable I was during puberty? The breasts, the emotions, and the female organs got all the sympathy. I got no credit for the torture I endured. You squeezed, scrubbed (remember the brush your crazy friend suggested for black heads), dried me out with astringents, and steamed me with that unbearable little machine guaranteed to deliver a perfect complexion. If you had taken the time to remove your make-up so I could breath, these torture devices might not have been necessary. But, I wasn't the mouth, so I couldn't say a thing.

And then, to add insult to injury, you blamed me for your fear of kissing! Did it ever occur to you that it was my job to know where to go, and I was prepared to do my job? I was anxious for a kiss. I looked forward to snuggling up close to someone else's face, someone who may run a finger gently down my side, or bless me with a little kiss instead of torture.

I led the way, filtered your air, alerted you to danger, and what did I get in return? Black heads, zits, allergies, and paper towels instead of tissues. Personally, I think I deserved silk handkerchiefs.

I am kind, not too long, not too wide, and a nice little bridge for glasses. I keep the hairs inside so you don't have to be embarrassed. But, you drag me to stinky situations, and pinch me when I react as I'm supposed to, and draw attention to my compromised position by shouting some ridiculous word like phewweeee! It's not a bit nice.

You're the one who smokes and drags me around molds, cats, rabbits, dust, and Oak trees. You know full well what will happen, and you still curse me for running. But oh, the feet get praised when they run.

And please, learn to swim or stay away from the pool. For years, you squeezed me so tightly before going under water that I thought you'd pull me right off your face. What a baby you were. You still don't have a clue. Exhale! You jump in and let me drown and sting from the chlorine when you could easily exhale and force the water in the other direction. Is that so hard to comprehend?

Admit you know the truth. I treat you better than anyone else does. I don't have any muscles or joints. I give you no pain. I don't bleed. I don't keep you awake. And I don't sag or wrinkle.
I think we are going to become closer friends as you age.

These Feet Were Made For Walking

I would drop to my knees and deliver the most heart-felt apology ever if I thought it would change anything. But the damage is done, and I doubt it would make much difference now.

I walked all over you, forced you into uncomfortable positions, allowed others to step on you, too, and a whole string of other injustices I can't bring myself to mention. I am truly sorry, especially considering how you carried me through the toughest times in my life and stood with me during the happiest. And you danced with me, the greatest gift of all. I'd give anything to do it again, and appreciate you the way I should have back then.

I guess the first memories I have of you are childish, but I want to go back to the beginning and remind you of the fun we once had. Remember when Granddad pulled my socks off and pretended you smelled bad so I would giggle. Once I started laughing, he'd grab you and tickle, and I'd kick and scream? I hope that was as much fun for you as it was for me.

You must have seen the abuse coming, because you toughened up early. Did you hate shoes as much as I did, and that's why you didn't complain when I jumped rope in the gravel, or walked miles on hot blacktop, or ran out in the snow without covering you? Remember that time I jumped on the broken bottle and it didn't even penetrate your skin? I was proud of you. I didn't mean to be abusive.

This is kind of embarrassing, but when I got older, I thought you were on the wrong body. The rest of me was long and thin, but you were short and fat. Why is that? Did you want to belong to someone else? For what it's worth, I learned to appreciate you for not being boats, and was glad you belonged to me.

You got me back with the warts. Warts are not cool, especially between the toes. However, I apologize for letting it turn into cellulitis, and for refusing the anesthesia when they cut on you. At least you got a break from gym and track.

Someone should just smack me for the years I forced you to travel eight floors of that hospital in high-heeled shoes. I'm sure you heard me vote out the nursing uniforms and comfortable shoes, so I won't try to make excuses. You can probably bribe the hands to deliver that punch if you want. I wouldn't blame you.

I do understand why you had to sit me down. Arthritis was more than you deserved, and you sure took the brunt of some years. I forgive you for making me wear the high-top sneakers all through 1987, even though I did feel self-conscious in my dresses and sports shoes. It helped you, so I'm glad I did it.

Can we call a truce? The rest of my body is just as miserable as you are now. If you will just promise not to hurt on the same day as my hip, I promise I'll never stick you in another pair of miserable shoes. Just keep me out of the wheelchair and I'll be happy walking as little as possible.

With a little compromise, I think we still have some good years left.

Breasts - Who Wants Them?

For those of us sentenced to Catholic school, back-to-school shopping promised few thrills beyond walking to Kresges with all the neighborhood mothers and our supply lists. The most we could look forward to once we got there was something as mundane as two-holed versus three-holed paper, or a choice between anklets and knee socks. Vickie Johnson changed that for all of us the summer before sixth grade.

Long before anyone else thought of shopping that year, Vickie's mom left the other nine children behind, shunned Kresges and the other mothers, and took Vickie downtown to shop, just the two of them. When they hadn't returned at dinnertime, I wasn't sure I could eat around my growing anticipation. I pictured her with all sorts of extravagant things: the cartridge pen with the pointed cap, the roll top pencil holder, a madras purse. If she came back with them all, I'd die of excitement with her.

As I shoved bites of pork chop around the plate, picturing Vickie in a red stretch-headband, she charged through the door without stopping to knock. "Wait 'til you see what I got," she squealed.

I didn't have to wait; my whole family sat staring at the bra she swung over her head like she'd win a prize if she lassoed the light fixture. I hid my disappointment, hoping she would still get at least one of the good things I had dreamed for her.

She handed the bra over for my mother to examine, neither of them showing any sign they shared my regret. After I had my turn at holding the bra, Vickie rushed out to show the others.

Mom bit her cheeks. Daddy said now Vickie would have something to carry her apples to school in. I asked to be excused and ran to catch up with my friend.

Within an hour, every girl in the neighborhood had rubbed, stretched, fastened and unfastened, adjusted the straps, and pined for Vickie's bra. She pulled a few of us aside and promised we could all try it on the next day.

Caught up in the excitement of being included in the select fitting club, I approached my mother that night to see if my world was changing also. "Am I getting a bra before school starts?"

"I don't think you need one," she said. "Do you?"

Suddenly I wanted breasts. "When do you think I might grow?"

She reminded me we were in the same grade, but Vickie was a year older. "Besides, people grow at different rates. It'll happen when the time is right for you."

That was my first lesson in careful what you wish for. Had I known the bra would become a pain in my ass forever, I would never have wasted those wishes.

My time came, and I got my bra. Even after Mom helped me adjust the straps, it refused to stay where it belonged. I tried not to move, but it didn't matter how still I sat, the darned thing climbed up and I had to tug it back down. At times, I was afraid it would crawl out the top of my blouse. It itched. I couldn't pay attention in class. Mom said I would be more comfortable after she had washed the bra a few times. She lied.

Once the newness wore off on that first bra, I wondered who could possibly have invented the contraption. What woman hated herself so much she decided to design something that would make her miserable every waking second of her life? Who thought gee it might be a good idea to bind her breasts tightly, connect the binding to her shoulders for added discomfort, and then put a piece of elastic across the back so boys could snap the crap out of her back? That woman must have been crazy, along with all the ones who followed her. And if a man thought it up, women were stupid to listen to him.

I changed my mind. I did not want breasts.

Not much changed over the years. My friends saved for months to get implants, I turned down freebies. My plastic surgeon friend retired feeling like a failure because my chest was still flat. I didn't want a hunk of flab hanging off my stomach, so why would I want two hanging off my chest?

I haven't seen Vickie in years. I picture her as a Victoria Secret regular, with a wardrobe of sexy lingerie. I'm still thinking about that fountain pen with the pointed lid.