Hail to the Brightest Star of All

I made my entrance to this bright world in a little hospital in Blowing Rock and grew up listening to Cove Creek gurgle by.

I rode Old Highway 421 to Boone to take ballet, tap, and jazz weekly at the Dancer’s Corner and made out with Robbie in his Volvo in Foscoe every chance I could get.

I attended the University of National Champions in Chapel Hill, camping out on the hard sidewalk outside the Dean Dome for basketball tickets, ordering Greek grilled cheese at Hector’s at 2:00am, and sweating my way through eight shows in the Lab! Theatre.

I flew away to Italy, Mexico, and New York Fuckin City, but I kept finding my way back to the Tar Heel State.

For five years, I taught fourth graders how to lose at tetherball on Seawell School Road, then wended my way out to my little mill house in Hillsborough and ran my dogs all over Occoneechee Mountain.

These days, I work out, go out, and tell stories in Bull City. I drive up Roxboro, down Mangum, and across Club Boulevard.

I’ve been to Asheville and Kure Beach and a lot of places in between, and I love. This. State.

I love North Carolina.

But today my state government voted to put hate on the ballot and bigotry on the map on May 8, 2012, and I just couldn’t be more ashamed.

Good Morning

The unmistakable shudder-jangle of Violet doing her morning shake yanked me out of (what I can only suppose now was) a near-comatose state. My eyes slammed open, and I stared at the big, red numbers:

7:25

In 0.83 seconds, my mind processed these numbers: It’s 7:25. Students arrive at 7:20. School is 14 minutes away. I’m here in my bed in my underpants. MOTHER—why didn’t my alarm go off?

Then I was in a dead sprint to the kitchen where my phone was plugged in. I yanked the cord out of its butt, and it made that beeboop sound, and that’s when I stopped and thought for a second: Out last night for Anna’s birthday… Friday night…

Today is Saturday.

No matter how relieved you are after that kind of jolt, there’s no going back to sleep. Daggummit.

(Today’s post brought to you by Amy’s House of First-World Problems.)

Helen

I did Helen tonight. Don’t get too excited, my lesbians; that’s just the name of one of the CrossFit benchmark WODs. Helen is:

Three rounds of

  • run 400 meters
  • 21 kettlebell swings (35 lbs for women)
  • 12 pull-ups

Last time I did this WOD (December 3 of last year), I used a 20-lb kettlebell and green-plus-skinny-purple bands for the pull-ups. I finished in 14:30. Tonight, I was using a 30-lb kettlebell and the blue band. And it took me 14:42.

So it took me twelve seconds longer than it did nine months ago. Fantastic.

I mean, I know I was doing more work this time with the equipment change, but goddamn.

A few weeks ago after a workout, my buddy Jack said, “Good job, Scott.” And I said, “No. It was not. I have a Bad Attitude about my performance today.” And we laughed.

Sometimes I can do that. Laugh about how bad I am. Other days I boo-hoo into my sleeve. Occasionally, I spew vitriol at myself. Today, I just feel like, goddamn.

 

 

You & the Night-Swimming

You’re not an exhibitionist—the opposite really, both you and your friend are, if anything, too modest—but there’s really only one way to go night-swimming, isn’t there?

Besides, it’s pretty dark—no moon or stars to speak of—so the two of you run down to the water’s edge, peel off your clothes, and dive, giddy, into the Atlantic. The waves are tumbly and fun, the temperature perfect: seemingly chilly at first until, at some point, you realize the air is colder than the water and you just want to stay in forever and become a mermaid.

But eventually your eyes get burny and your knees are bashed up from being tossed into the shallows, and you want to get out.

And that’s when three people come and situate themselves in beach chairs between you—butt nekkid—and your condo.

At this point, if you’re my sister-wife, you begin to giggle uncontrollably. If you’re me, you spin paranoid fantasies about how they’re voyeur/entrepreneurs, who’ve positioned themselves there with night-vision cameras, and your bare-assed jiggliness is gonna be on YouTube tomorrow, followed by a string of less-than-complimentary comments.

Eventually, you sprint out of the water at a half-crouch and wrap yourself haphazardly in your towel, or maybe that’s your T-shirt—whatever—and scurry up to the boardwalk over the dunes, hoping you managed to pick up your underpants in the kerfuffle.

The next day, you learn it was just the folks in the condo next door who had come out to sit and drink some beers, and who had set down their chairs there because they mistook your squeals of delight for dolphin calls. No spy cameras, no Internet-wide embarrassment. The neighbors didn’t even really see anything.

But that’s when you realize, it didn’t even matter if they did, because the previous evening’s blood pressure spike and worry and insecurity won’t stop you from skipping down the beach that night and doing it all again. And it’s a good thing too because

the stars are out,

the half-full moon has propped itself on the roof of a villa down the beach,

the tumbling waves are phosphorescent,

and there is just nothing,

nothing,

nothing,

like skinny-dipping

in the ocean

at night.

My Luck

Guy emails me over OKCupid yesterday, and what?! Blue eyes, works out, loves NPR and chocolate chip cookies, a scientist/executive who makes some serious money.

He did commit my pet peeve in his profile which was to say he was funny, but then… he was actually funny, so he got a pass.

In his email, he quoted and responded to specific parts of my profile. And included this line: “You look beautiful and you sound perfect. You should be told this every day.”

(swoon)

Aaaaand he’s married.

Yep.

At least he was up-front about it.