Monday evening I got kicked in the face. Or did I allow myself to get kicked in the face? Or did I attack my friend’s boot with my eye socket? Personal responsibility can be rather painful.
Setting the stage:
I was at rehearsal, doing my best to portray demonic Cheryl in Evil Dead the Musical. Cheryl pretty much lives in the cellar, locked away by her brother Ash. On cue, I raised the cellar door just enough to stick my face out of the hole in the floor. I peered forward and for a split second, I saw Ash’s boot directly in front of my…holy mother of…that was my eye or eye socket or some part of my face that at one moment was perfect and then…breathe…crap that hurts…breathe dammit…don’t cry…try not to cry…fine, cry, maybe crying will make the pain stop! Continue reading
This is perhaps the most honest post I have written thus far. Yes, I’m a little scared.
Three weeks ago, nearly 1,000 U.S. Army privates stood on a field in front of me. They had just completed what for many, if not all of them, were the hardest ten weeks of their young lives. As I watched the Ft. Jackson Basic Training Graduation ceremony what struck me first was a sense of awe. There were so many of them. What hit me next was a tinge of jealousy. Here were hundreds of young men and women, pledging their hearts, minds, and bodies to a cause. I could think of very little in my life that would motivate me to run to the center of a parade field and yell my allegiance, my absolute faith and certainty.
And then as God often does, or the “Universe” as a friend recently explained her faith “Because,” she said, “God is everywhere and everything,” I was given the answer I needed. No, a deep voice from the beyond sounding remarkably like Morgan Freeman did not say, “Jodie, my child, here is your purpose.” Continue reading
Thank goodness I was not standing in front of a mirror. There was no need to see my reflection. I could feel what was happening to my body. Alone in my home office, I stood with my feet shoulder width apart, placed my thumbs on my lower back, bent my knees slightly, and attempted to pop my rear end up and down.
Almost immediately, I felt pain. The pain of twerking was not only caused by trying to move my lower back and hips like a stripper on uppers, but also because what I mistakenly thought was muscular began to shake and slap, colliding into other long-neglected parts of my body. In that moment, I realized I am too old to twerk. Continue reading