It's more than a little frightening that I'm still very fond of the song "Sexy Love."
Ahem.
We roam the house like tired old women at age twenty-one. "I'm so tired!" we moan at 9:30. Are we asleep by midnight? Of course not.
"Oh, wait," Tanya says, in monologue fashion, as she slowly picks herself up in the den. "Maybe I'm tired from using crutches all day."
"In the white out," I add, my Ace-bandaged foot in its usual perch on top of the desk, next to the computer.
"And would you understand? Yes, you would!" She shuffles out of the den. "You actually use them properly."
As I left the house in the aforementioned whiteout, I looked up the hill and realized that I could barely see the top. I am going to get run over. I fleetingly thought of missing class. I knew that plenty of others would.
Yet I proceed anyway, bravely forging my way through certain peril and potential disaster. First a guy driving in the opposite direction, and later a girl going the same way as me, offered a ride out of the window. Unfortunately, I've been trained too well to say yes to strangers.
What does it mean that I crutched from Pleasant to Old Main, freezing, tapping the crutches together occasionally in hopes of shaking off a bit of snow and not falling on my face, politely declining aid beyond a door being held open?
Probably the very simple fact that I'm stubborn.
In the training room, Tanya and Christine compete to see who can bend their leg more. As five of us on six tables ice or kick, we realize that we've all torn our ACL's. We love gymnastics. We do. As we take over the bars, kipping and conditioning and hopping and not stumbling in front of the trainers, we refuse to be broken.
No comments:
Post a Comment