futile.

As in, raging at the gods in which I don't believe seems. . .

our bodies, ourselves

Lauryn accuses me of being obsessed with bodies lately. I can't hellllllp it. My academic life is all about bodies right now and in my personal life, bodies (mine and specific others') are of utmost importance to me, too. Plus, all the undergrads are back on campus and lo, there is amazingly interesting people watching to do again. Probably a day doesn't pass when we're walking together and I say, "Bodies are SO interesting," by which I really mean the diversity of bodies out there and the ways in which we do (and do not) adorn them.

In keeping with this theme, I'm going to tell you the story of the five identifiable scars on my body. I've been thinking about them lately (and remember telling Mel once that scars are interesting because they remind you of a past, even if it is one you'd rather forget) because I've been wondering what makes my body mine. How is identifiable to me, and to others, *as* me? Is my body me? Does that make my mind me? Is my mind part of my body? My scars are one way you could pick me out of the morgue, I guess, but their stories are much more interesting than that.

In order of earliest to most recent:

1. The tiny scar on the right side of my nose is from when I was a baby and at my babysitter's house. She had recently gotten new doors hung in her home and one of them was open. I crawled right into it. My mom tells this story very dramatically and can detail the wails she heard as she entered the house, having rushed from work at the babysitter's call.

2. The scar mostly obscured by my right eyebrow is a result of my playing Airplane on the ottoman in our family room when I was around 10. I fell off the ottoman and onto the edge of the brick fireplace, head first. My mom wasn't home, so my dad tended to the wound and took me to Urgent Care where they proceeded to stitch up the gash while I protested loudly that I was going "to tell my mommy on you!" for what they were doing to me. Heh. I also got to wear a bandage wrapped all the way around my head while the stitches did their magic. Kick ass.

3. The scar just below my belly button is the only remaining one of a cluster from when I had my gallbladder removed when I was 18. Until that point, I'd never experienced major illness and I pretty much thought my world was going to end when I went weeks being ridiculously ill and without a diagnosis. I especially thought it was going to end when I had to have surgery, the prospect of which scared the living crap out of me (as all the MHSer can attest, if they even remember). Happily, my world didn't end, natch.

4. The scar on the right side of my neck is from a negligent dermatologist who did a shitty job removing a bothersome mole when I was in college.

5. The scar just below my left kneecap is from our fateful canoe trip up north, the one for which I was in no shape physically to canoe, let alone had any experience doing so and thus, I kept banking myself on rocks and running into stuff in the shallow water. Since I was sitting in the bottom of the canoe to keep it balanced, my knee kept hitting the bench in front of it everytime I steered directly into a rock and/or tree. I believe I actually got the gash when I got out of the canoe and stepped wrong on a rock and went headfirst into the water, kneecap landing on a VERY! SHARP! ROCK! as Matt righted my boat. The subsequent banging into the bench did not help matters. When we finally finished up, the gash was pretty big and probably would have required stitches in normal life, but we were camping and normal life wasn't really available to us. It's a pretty impressive scar, I have to say.

So there you have it--my body in scars.

do you know the muffin man?

If I hear one more male (gay, straight, bi, pan, whatever) refer to muffin top as though it is an assault on his person, unimaginably offensive to his very sensibilities, I'm going to cram HIM into a pair of jeans with a 3 inch rise and see how that works out for 'em. You want to ogle "prettier" bodies? Complain to your compatriots who design the majority of women's clothing and let them know that a choice between waistband below the boobs and waistband at the cooch is no choice at all.

happy tucsoniversary to me

One year ago today I rolled into Tucson from pretty Albuquerque, check engine light still on in my beloved Lumina and proceeded straight to Casa 921 (aka the REAL Chill Town) to take possession of our keys and unload my overworked car. The first couple days, I stayed with Alex who was kind enough to lend me use of her whole house, take me out to dinner that first night, and let me bask in her air conditioning in between endless trips to Target and Home Depot and furniture stores. A day or two later, LB and Lois made it into town without killing each other on their cross-country drive and unpacking and decorating began in earnest.

I haven't given a lot of thought to the past year, possibly because until the last couple of months, it was one of the easiest, purposeful, and most fun of my entire life. Tucson will never be Madison, but the people I've met here have certainly helped ease that shortcoming. My transition out here was almost unmentionable, in fact, it was so easy. I didn't get homesick and though I missed their regular presence, I didn't pine for the people I left behind in Wisconsin. Adjusting to our new distance was natural and easy. Maybe as natural and easy as those relationships developed in the first place, lo these many years ago.

Moving to Tucson was one of the best decisions I've ever made, even now when I question whether I want to stay in this field. This program was the best option available to me and with few exceptions, it has fulfilled my expectations. Tucson is where I wanted to be, and over the past year, I've never wavered in that feeling, not even once. But more than that, leaving the Midwest and experiencing an entirely different region, climate and populace has been a ridiculously cleansing experience for me. I've learned so much about myself starting anew here and have grown in ways politically, spiritually and socially that I never could have imagined 366 days ago. I am sometimes hard pressed to remember who I was before I came to the desert, even though surely 95% of her is still present.

Without further ado, I present you merely some of the highlights of my first 365 days in the not-Midwest: Bowling. The Desert Museum. The Asylum. Birthday costume parties. Thanksgiving among friends. Having part of one family meet another. And her. Him, too. Little towns with big charm. Congress. A new year.Birthday dinners with good service, birthday dinners with bad service. Surprise cupcakes. Parties. Parties again. Red Rock. Her. Them. Him. Gem shows, drag shows, and indie shows at the Loft. Them. This land. More bowling. Running in our janky neighborhood. Him, too. Alison's Tour of Tucson Men Numbers One through Nine, but especially Number Six. Survival dinners. Fancy dinners. New cars. Soleil. That land, too. Roller derby. Karaoke. The shot count that's been on our whiteboard since May. Riding in cars with boys. The janky white cat. The singing, oh my god, the singing. Chocolate Truffle Twix. Our crazy landlady. Nogales. The story of the candles that sit on our front porch, just so, and have ever since January. Softball games with family. And on. Happy Tucsoniversary, indeed.