Jezzie's Girl
Out on the road today I saw a Dead Head sticker on a Cadillac.
A little voice inside my head said don’t look back you can never look back
Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go, but
I’ve been obsessively listening to this song. I’m like an ad for eighties post-traumatic stress disorder. I miss being young and spontaneous and carefree and I’m reminding myself to be these things more.
I went to the doctor this morning. Massive soft tissue damage she said with a curved Iranian accent. She says it takes a long time to heal and any sudden jarring, any spontaneous, heavy, careless movement will send me right back where I started from. Her brow furrows at my children playing on the floor, oreo icing stains their cheeks. She eyes the permanent marker 8 on my forearm – tells me to be careful. I tell her I'm trying not to be.
A new friend of mine says she’s trying to pin me down, but I keep moving. We began as business acquaintances. She is far superior in the art of the savvy business woman. I use my heart, she uses her head. I trip and fumble, she sails through a master. After a long courtship she met my children last week. Contemplating one of her own she was pleasantly surprised – they were not the equivalent of feral Chihuahuas. Then she found out about derby. Yes, roller derby.
When I was a kid I lived on a hill. Not a big hill, but a hill and I didn’t have a mobile mother and I didn’t know of any parks and so I tried in vain to skate at a nearby school. Void of a single flat space I scraped my knees and layered scar tissue for weeks before I put my shiny new skates in the closet for good. 33 years old and I shyly call a new roller derby league nearby. I know this is for me. 3 months later I am Jezebel Jett. On skates I am fearless and calm. I’m on flat ground now. I can skate with my ass dragging on the floor I’m so low. I can skate on one foot without falter. Last Sunday I spent fighting for my life. Skating my ass off against women years ahead of me. They took me out time and again and I got up without fail. Finally I hopped off the court and drove home with my left foot pressed down hard.
Last week a boy I used to know saw I boyfriend I used to know. Apparently he is a cop now with a beautiful woman on his arm. The night before I knew this I dreamed of sharks. That next night I dreamt of one of the only two fair-haired boys I ever touched and saw him underwater, floating eyes wide open and smiling with a beautiful blonde girl at his side. I swear there’s a picture of this somewhere. I’ll find it oneday.
As for the boy who saw the boyfriend – he is the stereotypical unrequited love who will forever hold a place in my psyche. He occupies a little corner, occasionally stretches out and rises to the top. I’m always glad to see him.
Back to skating and soft tissue, etc. I will heal slowly now. I’m not that girl those boys knew once. I’m not as thin or firm or nieve. But soft is good, as long as you know how to do it right.
A little voice inside my head said don’t look back you can never look back
Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go, but
I’ve been obsessively listening to this song. I’m like an ad for eighties post-traumatic stress disorder. I miss being young and spontaneous and carefree and I’m reminding myself to be these things more.
I went to the doctor this morning. Massive soft tissue damage she said with a curved Iranian accent. She says it takes a long time to heal and any sudden jarring, any spontaneous, heavy, careless movement will send me right back where I started from. Her brow furrows at my children playing on the floor, oreo icing stains their cheeks. She eyes the permanent marker 8 on my forearm – tells me to be careful. I tell her I'm trying not to be.
A new friend of mine says she’s trying to pin me down, but I keep moving. We began as business acquaintances. She is far superior in the art of the savvy business woman. I use my heart, she uses her head. I trip and fumble, she sails through a master. After a long courtship she met my children last week. Contemplating one of her own she was pleasantly surprised – they were not the equivalent of feral Chihuahuas. Then she found out about derby. Yes, roller derby.
When I was a kid I lived on a hill. Not a big hill, but a hill and I didn’t have a mobile mother and I didn’t know of any parks and so I tried in vain to skate at a nearby school. Void of a single flat space I scraped my knees and layered scar tissue for weeks before I put my shiny new skates in the closet for good. 33 years old and I shyly call a new roller derby league nearby. I know this is for me. 3 months later I am Jezebel Jett. On skates I am fearless and calm. I’m on flat ground now. I can skate with my ass dragging on the floor I’m so low. I can skate on one foot without falter. Last Sunday I spent fighting for my life. Skating my ass off against women years ahead of me. They took me out time and again and I got up without fail. Finally I hopped off the court and drove home with my left foot pressed down hard.
Last week a boy I used to know saw I boyfriend I used to know. Apparently he is a cop now with a beautiful woman on his arm. The night before I knew this I dreamed of sharks. That next night I dreamt of one of the only two fair-haired boys I ever touched and saw him underwater, floating eyes wide open and smiling with a beautiful blonde girl at his side. I swear there’s a picture of this somewhere. I’ll find it oneday.
As for the boy who saw the boyfriend – he is the stereotypical unrequited love who will forever hold a place in my psyche. He occupies a little corner, occasionally stretches out and rises to the top. I’m always glad to see him.
Back to skating and soft tissue, etc. I will heal slowly now. I’m not that girl those boys knew once. I’m not as thin or firm or nieve. But soft is good, as long as you know how to do it right.
1 Comments:
Hi Kim,
I'm a sorta employee of Charr's (and have also become her friend) and stumbled into your site. I write as well and love your flow (iffen you get my drift) I have felt stalled as well...it's like a dang cork in the brain. Just spent a week in Tucson, AZ with my mom, digging the saguaros and other Dr. Suess life forms which procreate with abundance in the Sonora desert. Twas a lovely respite, hanging with me mum. She's 75 and still jamming and I'm 55 and holding. My kids are in their early 30's, had 'em youngish. We struggled, muggled through it all and they still like me as well as love me. Being a mom is not a fashion accessory(despite the celebs shit) it's real. I didn't even want kids but was so fertile, a guy could smile at me across a crowded room and I would have caught, so I had the tubal ligation at 23 after whelping a boy and a girl. I knew I had produced plenty progeny. Ah, I"m blathering. Dig your missives, lady. Carol
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