As children, I’m sure we all remember defiantly laughing and rolling our eyes when our parents would warn us about making funny faces, threatening that they “would stay that way” if we didn’t stop. In my eight-year old naïveté, little did I know that decades later I actually would be paying the price for all my playground-renowned grumpy old man grimaces and tongue-wagging wide grins.

Now, my face – no longer plumped by the elastic collagen of innocence – acts as a form of silly-putty each morning. But instead of replicating brightly colored characters from the funny papers, my face bears the mirror image of my wristwatch, or the seams of my pillow, or my cat’s tail, or whatever unfortunate surface I happened to be laying on overnight. Sometimes I am forced to catch the late train in order to give my skin enough time to finally bounce back to its former shape, lest the local townsfolk think me a deformed freak and revoke my street parking privileges.

Over the past several months, I’ve had three dreams that involved me getting Botox injections. Only one ended badly, with the Botox forming gigantic lumps in my forehead that floated freely beneath the surface of my skin. But still, my wrinkles were gone, so even that dream didn’t turn out all that bad.

This past Christmas, my brother and I were watching TV at our parents’ house and some E! Entertainment special came on about celebrity plastic surgery. I half-jokingly made a comment to my brother like, “Huh. Maybe I should get me some of that Botox,” at which point he looked at me quite seriously and replied, “Yeah, you could probably use a little right there.”

Now, in case this isn’t already clear, let me outline some important points for any of the gentlemen who might be reading this right now. There are a few questions that women ask that should never, under any circumstance, be answered in the affirmative, including, but not limited to:

• Does this make me look fat?

• Was she prettier than me?
• Do you think I should get Botox?

Look, I know this makes me look fat, I’m aware that she’s prettier than me, and yes, I know I should get Botox, but really, how did it benefit you to confirm that for me? Was that a good idea, or a bad idea? It is not a new phenomenon for women to ask questions that can only end in a fight, so you’d think by now people would have learned their lines.

The correct answer to my question is, “What? Don’t be ridiculous! Why on earth would you get Botox? You’re way hotter than any of those plastic-faced anorexic models!”

Okay, wait. The thought of my brother saying that to me just totally skeeved me out, big time. So perhaps the correct answer is to never ask stupid questions like that in the first place, particularly in the presence of the person who used to draw mustaches on your favorite doll (Oh, Red Baby, will you ever forgive me for leaving you in the toy room unattended? I’ll never abandon you again, my sweet transgendered daughter).

As much as I’d like to be able to look you all in the monitor and say that I am appalled at the very idea of injecting botulism bacteria into my face, simply to live up to the beauty standard that Hollywood has set, clearly the fact that I am having recurring pleasant dreams about Botox speaks otherwise. But there’s one thing more powerful than even my feminist ideals that will prevent me from going under the needle anytime soon, and that is the overwhelming fear of a horrific, disfiguring result.

While I don’t consider myself to be someone who constantly yearns for the approval of others in life, for some reason, I have discovered that I strongly seek their approval in death. This is the reason I won’t skydive – truly, it’s not out of any fear of heights, or because I just don’t want to. I think it would be an amazing experience, but not amazing enough to counter my fear of this conversation:

“Oh god. When did it happen? Jenny was so young. Was it a car accident?”

“No, she went skydiving and her parachute got caught up in some electrical wires. It was over quickly.”

“Wait, she was skydiving? Are you kidding me? Why the hell did she go skydiving – she works in marketing!? She’s not even athletic!”

“I… I have no idea. She thought it would be cool, I guess.”

“Cool. Yeah, that’s real cool, all right. I’m sure she looked real cool all tangled up and electrocuted. What an idiot.”

”No kidding. Total moron.”

“You going to the wake?”

“Nah, not for that bonehead.”

“Me neither. Let’s go get a smoothie.”

“Cool.”

When I think about the idea of getting Botox, a similar scenario plays through my head, except this time, instead of dying in some power lines, I imagine my face horrifically scarred beyond recognition. I’m not proud to admit it, but it isn’t some moral, Gloria Steinem-esque outrage against agism that prevents me from juicing up – it’s really the fear of having to explain that my deformity was caused by pure unadulterated vanity.

So for now, I’ll continue to take my Vitamin E tablets, drink eight glasses of water a day, and get plenty of rest each night. Oh, and I’m going to see if I can start sleeping on my back from now on, too. Those wristwatch lines are murder on the complexion.

Comments Off | Filed under: On Aging

As another birthday looms near, I find myself approaching my mid-thirties, which, according to my friends, is the time when we finally stop focusing so much on the things we want out of life, and begin convincing ourselves that we never really wanted them in the first place. But for me, each new birthday signals a changing of the guard, of sorts. A time for me to try to pass on something I have learned to a younger generation, so that they might benefit from my squandered youth.

With that in mind, I launch my new feature, On Aging – a series of brief observations on what it means to watch your body fall apart before your very eyes. Enjoy.

Along with an uncontrollable urge to cry at any sports-related movie – even though I hate sports-related movies – my thirtieth year also gave me the gift of vision. Before I turned thirty, I never looked for physical signs of aging, which I suppose is partly because there weren’t all that many to be concerned with.

But magically, as though given the sight of the Oracles, the day after my thirtieth birthday, I looked into the mirror and saw through the mist of youth, revealing colors and lines in my face I had never before witnessed. Recently, I was discussing this phenomenon of self-observation with my friend, Vivian:

“So, this is weird – I thought I found liver spots on the back of my right hand yesterday.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But then I licked them and realized it was just some melted chocolate.”

“Jenny, why in god’s name would you lick something you suspected to be a liver spot?”

“On the outside chance that it might be chocolate.”

Comments Off | Filed under: On Aging

Last week Natasha and I were out at a karaoke bar, preparing our set list for the evening’s theme, which was “Fire.” Seamus takes his karaoke very seriously, so he likes to mandate themes, which must be strictly adhered to each week.
“How about We Didn’t Start the Fire?”
“Oooh – good one! I think I’m gonna do Hot Stuff and Ring of Fire.”
“Nice.”
The bartender came over to get our drink order – I asked for my usual scotch and soda, and Natasha ordered… a ginger ale.
Huh?
This was a bit out of character for Nat, since her tastes typically lean toward vodka tonics or Cosmopolitans. Concerned for her well-being, I chimed in: “Hey? What gives? We come to a bar and you order a ginger ale? You sick or something?”
Nat dug around in her purse looking for her wallet, and said, “I need to stop drinking for a while. I’m getting a little out of control.”
“What are you talking about? How are you out of control?”
“Jen – ever since you moved to Chicago, my health has been suffering. I used to cook at home more often, work out more, take vitamins…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Surely you aren’t blaming me for your vitamin intake?! Nat – no one is more concerned with your iron levels than I am, and you know it!”
“No, no. You’re right. I’m just saying that lately when you and I hang out, things tend to get a little crazy.”
“Crazy? Look – who helped mend the fences between you and Seamus so we could all hang out together? Who started the Roll the Die Tuesday Night Supper Club and logged all our restaurant reviews into my Sony Clié PDA, which was subsequently stolen in the robbery? So we indulge in the fire water and take Lambada lessons every now and then. We’re all having fun, no one’s been thrown in jail, so what’s the big deal?”
“Jenny, need I remind you of the spectacle we made of ourselves last weekend?”
“I’m certain that I have no idea what you are talking about, Natasha.”
“The leather bar? Furry G-string? Any of this ringing a bell?”
Oddly, it did ring a bell. A soft and distant bell, that with each passing moment became louder and louder. And the longer I reminisced, the more that bell started to sound like the booming bass and pounding dance rhythms of DJ Warden spinning at The Penitentiary, one of Chicago’s oldest leather bars.
Here’s how it all started: Natasha’s boyfriend, Farnsworth, invited us to see his friend’s band play at a local bar. Nat told me it was some sort of benefit performance for the Tsunami victims – and if there’s anything I like more than live music, it’s live music with a cause.
As Nat told me about this philanthropic event, she smirked a bit and said, “But I just want to give you a heads-up. The band is playing at a leather bar.”
“Oh, okay. So, are we talking the biker kind of leather bar, or the gay kind of leather bar?”
“The gay kind. Or maybe gay bikers, I’m not exactly clear on the details.”
“That’s cool, but am I going to get thrown out if I wear my Gap jeans and a turtleneck?”
“No, it’ll be totally cool. Farnsworth says it’s a really inclusive type of a bar. I’m sure it will be a diverse crowd.”
“Will I see men in buttless chaps?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I have since learned not to trust Natasha’s judgment on such matters of fashion.
Nat and I pushed the doors open like a couple of gunslingers walking into a saloon, and were met with a veritable sea of black leather. The place smelled like a chummy mix of new car, cigarette smoke, and Red Bull. I hadn’t seen so many studded leather sailor hats since Seamus took 2nd Place in that Village People impersonator contest a few years ago.
As soon as the band stepped on stage, everyone went wild. The crowd sang along to the old classics: Everybody Loves a Muscle Boi and There’s a Porn Star Shining Down on Me. The bass was booming, people were jumping, the scotch was flowing freely, leather was crunching. And best of all, I knew I was helping make a difference to people halfway across the world.
Natasha had to shake my shoulder to snap me out of this smoky stroll down memory lane.
“I don’t know what the big deal is, Nat. We all had a good time. Everyone was dancing, and drinking, and laughing. What’s so bad about that?”
“Jenny, I realize you had a bit to drink that night, so this may be a little foggy in your memory, but perhaps you blocked out the part where you kept stuffing dollar bills into a man’s fur-covered G-string.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy. I know what I did – it was only two dollar bills, and it was for a good cause.”
“And what cause might that be?”
“Hello? The Tsunami victims?!”
“Uh, Jenny. The cover charge went to the charity. That man had nothing to do with the Tsunami victims. He came there in that fur G-string.”
[reflective pause]
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“But… he was on stage. With the band…”
“Uh, yeah. That’s because he was a stripper, Jenny. And you stuffed dollar bills into his fur G-string.”
“Well… what do you know?”
[another reflective pause]
“Uh, bartender? Cancel that scotch – can you make mine a ginger ale, too?”

Comments Off | Filed under: General

On this glorious holiday, when we celebrate all that we love, I want to bring the mood down a little and get serious for once. I may joke about the flowers and chocolates, but Valentine’s Day is a very important holiday that should be celebrated with all the honor and respect that Mr. Hallmark intended when he came up with it in his marketing boardroom. Oh wait, that was Sweetest Day – scratch that last part.
It’s funny, but Valentine’s Day always makes me think of my grandfather, because he had a charming way of speaking his mind and pointing out what was most important in life. Every Valentine’s Day, he would send me a little card with a hand-written note – just a sentence or two – that would bring a smile to my face and make me feel like the most special girl in the world. I kept them all in a little satin covered box that once contained an Easter bonnet he bought my grandmother when he was courting her.
All of the cards would begin with, “Dear Jenny, always remember this:” Some of the notes that stuck with me are:

Comments Off | Filed under: General

Don’t be that way.
We knew it couldn’t last.
I mean, it was bound to happen.
All good things must come to an end.
So dawn goes down to day, nothing gold can stay.
I’ve been thinking about it for some time now. I like it here, but I just need a change of scenery. Staring at the same thing day after day after day starts to bring you down, you know?
So I’m doing it – I’m moving away.
No, not from Chicago, sillies! From this little blue and green and tan home at Blogger that has served me so well over these many months.
I just feel like we need a bigger place now. You deserve something pretty. So with that in mind, in the next week or so, I will be relocating to a new home at a new address.
Now, based on personal experience, I know that accepting change takes time, which is why I wanted to give you some advance notice of my move. I want to give you time to let it sink in so you can consider how this change will affect you, and how we can work together to make it a successful transition.
But, trust me on this one – you’re going to love our new place! It has a better school system, it’s way bigger than this place, and has a much better view. My new home is gonna be so cool – it will have stock tips, a recipe board, a word jumble, Classic Asteroids®, free virus patches, and a live feed into the Big Brother house!
Then, in Version 2.0 (to be released in late July), I’m going to develop an online dating service strictly for bloggers called blotch.com. You don’t get to pick who you date – I just randomly pair up two people in my blogroll. So maybe you’re already married, or maybe you live in New York and she lives in Dallas – I need you to just trust me on this one. Bubbe knows best.
Oh, shoot – can you hang on a sec? My cell phone’s ringing.
Talk to me. What? But I thought you said… Yeah, but when I signed the contract we… No, I know we talked about the recipe board… How much? Uh, no, just try it again – I’m sure it will clear this time. No, it must be some mix up at the bank. Let me make a few calls. Yeah, okay. Later.

Okay, due to an apparent miscommunication, my design team has just informed me that actually none of those things will be on my new site. But wouldn’t that be awesome?!
So that’s the good news, but here’s what breaks my tender heart – with this new change of address, all your old comments will be wiped out, blown away into the infinite blogoverse. This pains me to no end because I’ve so enjoyed reading all the funny, intelligent, and downright bizarre comments you have kindly left over the past several months.
I contemplated asking you to all remember precisely what you said each week, and in which order, and then recreate those comments exactly on the new site, but then I thought that might be a little too time consuming to orchestrate.
So instead, I’m just going to encourage you to do what I’m doing: take a walk down memory lane. Thanks so much for hanging out with me here, and I do hope to see you at my housewarming party. Please bring a dish to pass and RSVP, regrets only.

Comments Off | Filed under: General

When I walked into my office building yesterday, my path to the elevators was blocked by an enormous red and white sign near the security desk that said:
“Win a free dozen roses and a box of chocolates from ExecuCorp Properties! Drop off your business card today at the security desk to be entered into the drawing! Flowers and chocolates will be delivered to your office on Valentine’s Day!”
Now, I’ve done some lonely things in my day, like ordering a birthday cake with my name on it when it’s not really my birthday, or eating a pint of cookie dough ice cream while watching Love Story with my cats, but sending myself roses and chocolates on Valentine’s Day? That’s just plain sad.
While I found this contest to be a bit bizarre, I’ve learned that sometimes my judgment is off, so I consulted the best resource I knew – my friend, Hap. Hap is an expert when it comes to all things Valentinian because he works for a singing telegram company. This is his busiest season of the year, as you might imagine.
I called up Hap so he could weigh in on this great debate: registering for free roses – pathetic or not?
“I would never use the term pathetic.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“Desperate and sad, maybe, but never pathetic.”
“But how lame is that? I mean, that’s almost as bad as sending a singing telegram to myself.”
Hap’s eyes lit up: “I could get you a discount if you don’t mind a Barbershop Trio. Our baritone has strep.”
“Hap! You’re missing the point! Is it, or is it not, a sad state of affairs that my building is already anticipating that no one will send me a Valentine this year? I know this contest is about me – someone must have told them! I mean, can you just imagine the humiliation if I actually won?”
[Cue dream sequence]
Our main character, Jenny, is sitting at her desk, feverishly typing away on a marketing proposal that is due in two hours. In her trash can, we see a banana peel, a Cheetos wrapper, and an empty Starbucks cup. Suddenly, we hear a commotion coming from the front of the office – people chatting, desk drawers slamming shut, chairs swiveling, necks craning – a handsome delivery man enters the office carrying one dozen perfect red roses and an enormous heart-shaped box of chocolates wrapped in a delicate pink bow.
“Delivery for Miss Jenny!” says the man in the brown suit, a smile stretched across his face.
“For, m- me? But, I… oh my goodness!” squeals our blushing heroine.
Her co-workers curiously gather around her desk, anxious to share in the excitement that unexpected gifts bring.
“Who’s it from? Who’s it from, Jenny?” screams one woman.
“I don’t remember you mentioning anyone special in your life! Oooh, you’re so secretive!” giggles another.
“Oh, they’re just lovely! Someone must really love you!” titters a third.
Exhilarated by all this sudden attention, Jenny coughs a bit, then sheepishly mumbles, “Well, I… we just started dating recently. This, this is really all so unexpected.”
“Let us see the card! What does the card say?”
“Um, it just says…”
“Read it to us! What does it say?”
Realizing she is now deep into the deception, Jenny wipes her brow, and then says, “It says, Dearest Jenny, I adore you…”
Jenny nervously looks up at her colleagues, searching for reassurance, and feels a swell of pride as they all eagerly nod, hanging on her every word.
She continues, “Dearest Jenny, I adore you. And think you’re beautiful. And very smart. And funny. And each moment I spend with you is like an eternity in Paradise.”
At this last line, Jenny closes her eyes and presses the card to her chest. Just then, a male co-worker snatches the card out of Jenny’s hand and reads it aloud: “Happy Valentine’s Day from… ExecuCorp Properties! We value your business!”
The card drops from his hand and flutters in slow motion to the ground.
Jaws drop, and an initial hush passes over the crowd, followed by machine-gun bursts of hysterical laughter. Jenny’s co-workers all point at her as they double over, tears streaming down their faces.

A blonde woman from sales pries the box of chocolates from Jenny’s hands, throws it to the ground, and starts stomping on it. A skewer of butter cremes collects on her stilettos. The new billing clerk grabs the flowers off Jenny’s desk and passes them around the crowd. Her co-workers rip the heads off the roses with their teeth, and spit them out at Jenny’s head. They are oblivious to the thorns, as thin streams of blood trickle down their chins.
The ghoulish visages of her colleagues spin around her like blurry merry-go-round faces, their teeth stained crimson with blood and rose petals.
She feels she is going mad.

“Jenny loves the building! Jenny loves the building! Jenny and ExecuCorp, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
Hap yelled into the phone, “Jenny! Jenny! Hey – where’d you go there? Look, I gotta get going soon – telegrams to deliver, and all.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I just wanted the opinion of an expert. I mean, sending yourself candy and roses. Isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”
“Yeah, totally stupid.”
“See, that’s what I thought.”
“So… how many cards did you drop in?”
“Four.”
“Good girl.”

Comments Off | Filed under: General

I found this in my inbox when I got home today. Note to self: Do not play literary chicken with talented poets.

Dear Jenny,

I usually unkindly judge poets who, after a few pints, jot poems on bar napkins and rush to make them public. Alas, I felt a certain challenge by your entry this morning to dash off an ode to a stick. So, without ado and with the rush of irish ale, here it tis.

Enjoy!

Love,

Vivian


STICK

wild wind breaks branch
carries all weak things
to new rest against fences
plastic bags paper wrappers stick
this stick finger thick
memory of a hand
a wave in all that’s left
no stones.

Comments Off | Filed under: General

As much as I enjoy writing these entries, occasionally I’ll suffer from what is commonly referred to as writer’s block. Or as it’s known among my friends, “Jenny hasn’t been robbed in over two weeks.”
During those trying times, I often look to my friends for help, comfort, and advice. Most of them just give me the vaguely supportive suggestions like:
Change your environment!
Try mood altering medication!
Move your computer into the dining room!
Hold a brainstorming session!
Plagiarize!
But not Vivian. No, Vivian’s advice is much more concrete. In fact, she often comes to me with lists of things I should write about. Sometimes, they’re not even things that happened to me: “So this one friend of mine is really allergic to cats, and he started dating this girl with a bunch of cats, but he was too embarrassed to tell her he was allergic, so he rifled through her medicine cabinets looking for Benadryl because his throat was closing, and she caught him, and thought he was creepy, so they broke up!”
“But Viv – I don’t know either of those people, and none of that happened to me. I can’t write about that!”
“Oh, well, I admire your integrity. Good luck coming up with an entry.”
The last time I saw her, we were in a coffee shop getting some lattés, and I casually mentioned that I didn’t have anything in mind for the upcoming week’s entries. After she got done paying for her coffee, she handed me a tattered dollar bill that had one of those web addresses on it that lets you track who has had that dollar before you. You know the one – where’s george dot com?
Without even looking up from her wallet, she just shoved the bill at me and said, “Here. That should be good for at least an entry or two.”
A dollar bill? I’m seriously going to write an entire blog entry – or two – about some ratty dollar bill that she handed me? Yeah, that’s riveting stuff. Maybe I can do a whole series on Things I Dug out of Vivian’s Pockets:
Monday: Blue and White Lint
Tuesday: Cough Drop
Wednesday: Crumpled Kleenex
Thursday: Two Nickels and a Dime
Friday: Old MetroCard
Boy, that will make for quite the literary event – I might want to save it for sweeps week, though, to drive the ratings up. The interesting thing is that Vivian is a writer, herself. A poet, to be exact. Since inspiration apparently comes in such mundane forms, the next time I see Vivian, I’m going to see if this same theory works for her as well:
“Oh hey, Vivian. Look! Here’s a stick. Why don’t you quick write a poem about it?”
Or

”Hey – that’s neat! Here’s a bottle cap that’s been run over by some cars. I’m sure this will inspire you to craft a few sonnets, right?”
Or even
“What do you know? I found a ring from the milk carton on my kitchen floor. Then my cat knocked it into the dining room. Viv – you could do an epic poem about that, in the tradition of Homer’s, The Odyssey, don’t you think?”
Brother. Some people have a lot of gall. Like it’s just that easy to write a blog. “Write about this dollar bill,” she says. How on earth does she think I’d be able to write an entire entry about a silly dollar bill?
Ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.

Comments Off | Filed under: General

Hey, Seattle, it’s Jenny. Are you screening? Pick up. Hello? Okay, I guess you’re not home. Anyway, I just wanted to call to say hi. Hope things are going okay wi- Oh hey! You’re home! I’m sorry, did I wake you?
I’m sorry, yeah, I know it’s early out by you. I just… I needed to hear your voice.
I know – it’s been a while. How have you been?
No, I’m okay, but things are really messed up with Orangehat and me right now. I’m ending it, Sea. I’m going to ask him for a divorce.
Why would you even say that? You know I’m not getting a divorce because of you. I told you that things were bad long before I met you.
Because it’s the truth! You’re the one I love, Seattle! I was so stupid with Orangehat – trying to hang onto something that hadn’t been working for ages. Looking back, I’m not even sure it ever worked. I rushed into marriage with him before we really got to know each other. I mean, do you have any idea what it feels like to think you’re in love with someone, but then suddenly wake up and realize you’re sitting next to a complete stranger? It’s the loneliest feeling in the world, Sea.
I deserve to be with someone who loves me as much as I love him. Isn’t that what we all want?
I know – I feel the same way about you. I just wish you lived closer to me – I never thought that having a clandestine long distance marriage to a city in the Pacific Northwest would be so hard.
I know you don’t like it when I bring this up, but I really wish you would consider moving out here. Illinois is a great state.
Well, Washington doesn’t recognize our marriage either, so what’s the diff-
We are a blue state!
Well, yeah, but we have Lake Michigan.
No, you can’t really eat the fish out of there, but it’s way bigger than Lake Washington.
Mmm, I think almost three million, but it doesn’t feel that big.
I don’t know, fairly temperate, I guess. About 84˚ in the summer, 21˚ in the winter…
Average monthly precipitation? How the hell… look, I’m not the Census Bureau. All I know is that my marriage to Orangehat is over, and you and I can finally be together all the time now.
I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve tried to get you out of my head, but everything keeps reminding me of you. I mean, I walk past about 15 Starbucks every day, I eat salmon at least once a week, and last night VH1 had a Behind the Music about Pearl Jam. This can’t all be one huge coincidence!
Honey, don’t. I can’t have this conversation again. You know I can’t move out there – my job is here, my family is here. Won’t you at least consider it?
What do you mean, how? You just pack up your things and move, like everybody else.
Yes, babe, I realize that you are a city, but cities move all the time. Houston used to be in Colorado until about 1827.
I don’t know, I read it somewhere.
Stop trying to change the subject. Look, hon, I don’t want to pressure you. All I’m asking is that you think about it. I’m telling you, my place is so much bigger – I have the perfect spot picked out for the Needle. You’re going to love it here!
Okay, well, go back to bed and get some rest. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, okay?
Don’t worry, I won’t. Two hours behind – got it!
Love you!
Bye.

Comments Off | Filed under: Orangehat Chronicles

Whenever I read a news story about a child who saved his sibling by performing CPR (which he learned on Baywatch), or about a teenager who rushed into the neighbor’s burning house to get them out of the fire, it reminds me of my own childhood. Not because I actually did any of those things, of course, but because I so desperately wanted to.
I wanted to save someone’s life. Not the reformed alcoholic or religious awakening type salvation. No, just good old, “you were about to die, and I just saved your life” type saving. My hero phase lasted a few years. At the local swimming pool, I would patrol the deep end, looking for someone who might be getting a cramp. I would stretch my arms and my calves just in case I had to quickly dive in to save an elderly woman. At the playground, I would monitor the younger children to make sure they didn’t get too close to the street, and I’d imagine myself racing after them and tackling them to the grass just seconds before a bus rammed into both of us.
I’m not really sure why I had this fantasy. I wasn’t a strong swimmer or a fast runner. I had enough friends to keep me busy – I didn’t need to indenture some little playmate by saving her life. I was never a thrill seeker, so I don’t think it was the adrenaline rush that appealed to me. And I would blush in school if the teacher singled me out for doing something well, so I can’t say that it was the fame I was after. Maybe I just wanted to know that I could do it – to know that in the face of great danger, I could put aside my own fears and risk my life for someone else’s.
I mean, hopefully, I would have saved somebody really important. Someone whose life would have made a big difference to thousands of others. Like a child prodigy, maybe. You know, I think that might be it – since I wasn’t a child prodigy myself, I at least could have been the kid who saved the child prodigy.
“Who’s that boy?”

“That’s a girl.”
“Oh. Who’s that girl?”
“You know. She’s that one girl who saved that child prodigy.”
“Oh, that’s the girl? Huh. She looked taller in the paper.”
I mean, when you think about it, saving a child prodigy is actually a lot more impressive than being one. Prodigies just are. They don’t choose to write operas at age four or solve complex mathematical equations at age five. Frankly, they can’t help themselves. It’s programmed into their DNA. Prodigies have an urge, a desire, which must be fulfilled at all costs. Relationships are destroyed, families are torn apart, friends are lost, all in the relentless, passionate pursuit of their talent. For god’s sake, didn’t any of you see Amadeus? Or La Bamba?
In fact, child prodigies are really no better than drug addicts. Let’s face it – I’m the one who made the choice. I’m the one who risked my life, just to save that uppity rosin snorting violin genius. Oooh, look at me! I’m a child prodigy! I’m too good to play tether ball with you because I might sprain my piano pinky!

So maybe it’s all for the best that I was never particularly brave or athletic. Thanks to me, there are probably a few less opium smoking, plane crashing, bipolar prodigies out on the streets, and if that doesn’t make me a hero, then I don’t know what does.

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