Looking for another miracle...

I have been obese twice in my life. I was never overweight as a child or as a teenager. The only time I have gained more than a few pounds was in response to quitting smoking. The first time was when I was 21. (I won’t shock you with the details of how long I had been smoking up until that point. That I will save for another posting.) I was not entirely aware of the weight gain as it was happening that first time. However, about a year after having my last cigarette, I realized that I had gained an unforgiveable number of pounds.

This actuality was brought home to me by a particularly painful incident involving a woman who had pretended to be my friend for a couple of years. I’ll call her ‘Brunhilda’ for the purpose of this tale. We met when we found ourselves sharing an apartment after a mutual friend, Michelle (about whom I blogged last month in 'Lost, but not forgotten...' http://tinyurl.com/yhpe8dm), backed out of sharing the place with me and I needed a roommate to help with the rent.

We remained roommates for a time, and then went our separate ways. During the time Brunhilda and I lived together, other friends commented on more than one occasion that this woman was not a true friend to me. I didn’t pay too much attention to this. Whatever shortcomings she had as a friend did not seem to have much of an impact on me at that point in my life. And, as we hardly saw each other after we ceased to be roommates, it wasn’t that important to me either way.

However, one day, completely out of the blue, I got a call from her. She said she wanted to see me and (somehow) talked me into going up to the restaurant where she worked to visit her. Foolishly, I did. Not long after I arrived she hit me with this tidbit in a very conversational tone:

“Wow, Michelle was right. You did get fat.”

This was not the kind of greeting I was anticipating. I felt the blow on two fronts. The first being that I was abused by two people I thought of as friends. I felt betrayed. I felt like an idiot – a schmuck. The second, of course, being that for the very first time in my life someone had called me fat. That’s not something you forget. Ever.

Years passed before I lost that weight. I’m not exactly sure how it started. But I finally came to a point in my life where I felt good enough about myself to start exercising and eating “right”. I started walking in the park on a daily basis. I was in the process of detoxing myself from the antidepressant Zoloft I had been taking to help me get over a bad case of unrequited love. I would walk through the woods and experience nature while pushing through the light-headedness and woozy feeling the drug left behind as it worked its way out of my system.

Many people ran past me wearing sunglasses and earphones. I remember wondering at the time why they would go to the trouble to come all the way to the park to run when it was obvious to me that they wanted neither to see the wilderness nor listen to the wildlife. If that’s the way they felt about the experience, why didn’t they run in a gym or up and down the street where they lived. People are funny sometimes.

Anyway, over the course of about six months I lost the excess weight. It felt like a miracle to me. I realize now that it was a man-made miracle, not one of divine instigation. Or perhaps it is more accurate to call it a ‘me-made miracle’. At any rate, I felt good about myself. I was mentally, emotionally, and physically in the best shape I had been in since I was a child. I was living strong before that phrase was even coined.

But the years went by and (for some reason that I am still unable to fathom) I started smoking again. And, as before, I eventually quit. Also as before, I gained a lot of weight. Once again, I have waited for a good stretch of time before beginning to lose this weight.

But now I’m ready for another ‘me-made miracle’. I’m fully aware that this time around it may be a bit harder. I am older now and have a slower metabolism. I acquired asthma a number of years back (I was diagnosed after I quit smoking the last time). This can and does interfere with exercising. And, unfortunately, I gained a good deal more weight this time around. But I am tired to the bone of being marginalized by the way I look. I want to be once again mentally, emotionally, and physically capable of enjoying every possible good and wonderful thing that life has to offer me. I want to ‘live strong’ again.

So, athletically shod and full of gritty determination, I venture forth yet again into the ‘wilderness of weight loss’. If you’re a kind soul, perhaps you would be so good as to wish me luck. If you are not such a nice person, have the courteously to wait until I pass out of earshot before laughing out loud.

And if I see Brunhilda on the road... Well, let's just say that the tread pattern on my brand new walking shoes would look very nice deeply embossed on her face.

Photo by Nadir Hashmi
http://www.flickr.com/photos/nadircruise/235855066/

Musings on a leaf...

What is the destination of an autumn leaf? Knowing that it is fated to crumble apart and fall into nothingness, does it care whether it lands on rich soft soil that will drink of its essence gratefully, or on the cold, hard pavement that is neither nourished nor burdened by its moldy remains?

I once watched a dead brown leaf drift in a low breeze and twirl across the road. It was buffeted to and fro in an easy rhythm -- one, two, pause, pause, one, two, pause, pause, to the left, to the right, then hanging in mid air. It finally tumbled head over heels and smacked against the curb across the way. It sank there, and seemed to sigh. Was it disappointed? Relieved? Both?

The inquisitive element of my personality might wonder how this tale of an oak leaf’s end mirrors that of the human experience. I can certainly identify with the sense of being knocked to and fro. Inside each brilliant moment, each loosely linked episode of life experience that constitutes the chain of my days here on Earth, I have often held the belief that I was in control of the direction my life was taking. In the back of my mind, however, the quiet but strangely penetrating voice some might call one’s unconscious, always whispered the truth. I am but a leaf afloat on the breeze.

So the question I have is this: when each of us lights down on our final resting place, will we have found someone who will willingly act as our deep soft soil? Someone to love, honor and cherish us and be glad of our existence on this earth? Or will we be alone and forgotten, fated to be left to the tender mercies of the cold, hard pavement of obscurity? And what, if any, control do we have over it all?

Photo by Blue Stone Graphics http://www.flickr.com/photos/bluestonestudios/1195477131/

If you could only pick three...

You know the old ‘personality quiz’ question,

“What three albums would you take with you on a desert island?”

I recently pondered this and it occurred to me that the question never addresses how it is these albums (presumably CD’s) are to be played. If we assume that a CD player is available, what about a power source? There are no power outlets on a desert island – by definition.

Batteries, you say? Okay. So what happens when they die? Oh, rechargeable batteries. Really? And how will you recharge them? Ah, I see. You will take a solar battery charger with you to this isolated little rock in the sea. Good thinking. Well done.

Right. So let’s take stock of things here. We have your three favorite CD’s, a CD player, rechargeable batteries, and a solar battery recharger. Excellent. We’re all set.

Hmm. But if we’re allowing the use of solar powered chargers, why limit it to batteries for your CD player? I mean, really, is that the only thing you can think of that would be useful on an uninhabited sandbar far from civilization? For that matter, why limit yourself to CD’s? I mean, if you have a reliable power supply, why not bring an MP3 player?

And, yes, taking this line of thinking out to its inevitable conclusion, you would eventually get around to including on this list a satellite phone which can be used to call in a rescue party. This, of course, defeats the whole purpose of being marooned on a desert island so you can choose which three albums you want and thereby give the questioner a glimpse into your personality.

So, after letting this question rattle around in my head for a few minutes I’ve come to realize that the whole scenario is completely asinine. Therefore I refuse to participate in such insipid inanity.

P.S. Ahem… But if I did answer the question, it would be Aerosmith’s first album (1973), Santana’s Greatest Hits (1974), and ZZ Top’s Rancho Texicano: The Very Best of ZZ Top (2004). Just sayin’….


Photo by Jonathan_W http://www.flickr.com/photos/s3a/1357093894/

Lost, but not forgotten...

The following was written in July of 2008:

My best friend from childhood grew up to be a pathological liar, a grifter, a prostitute, and a heroin addict. She became addicted to heroin through the grace and benevolence of her “thirty-something” boyfriend Danny when she was only sixteen years old. From that point forward, there was never an alternative identity available to her other than that of victim with a capital "V".

I wonder what she would have become or accomplished had she never become addicted to heroin. Without that ever-present and overpowering weight to drag around, what kind of life could she have led? This line of thought provoked me to consider all that I have not accomplished. I find I don’t really have much in the way of achievements, and no real excuse for the lack of them. If I have managed to dodge the bullet (addiction and an early death) that Michelle did not, shouldn’t I show a little gratitude and get the hell off of my ass?

I have talent, intelligence, and ambition. The question is, why haven’t I demonstrated any drive? I have spent years feeling superior to Michelle because I had the good sense not to get involved with highly addictive substances (or people). But, really, which one of us has shown more of a “go-get-em” attitude? I know that Michelle expended huge amounts of energy and ingenuity in the pursuit of her fix day after day, month after month, year after year. It makes me so very tired just thinking about it. It makes me sad too.

God, what could that girl have attained if she had spent her life pursuing a passion instead of satisfying an addiction? For that matter, what could I accomplish if I spent my life pursuing a passion instead of satisfying… a sense of self pity?... an inflated sense of entitlement? What? Why haven’t I lived up to my potential? What is my excuse? Is there any?

I wonder if she ever had a dream. I call her my friend, but I’m not really sure that I knew her that well as an adult. We both ‘left home’ a bit early, and from the moment we stepped out the door and into the big, wide world we went our separate ways. We intersected each others' lives for shorter and longer periods after that time, but we were headed in such opposite directions that it was always with a sense of nostalgia and loss that we met. Childhood was over and we both knew it was gone forever.

Even as children, though, I don’t remember her expressing any particular ambition. The reality was that we were both pretty aimless as teenagers. I remember when we took off in her stepfather’s car. We didn’t have a plan, at least none that I recall. I was fifteen, she was fourteen. Neither one of us knew how to drive, but we both somehow thought it was an intelligent idea to steal a car. She wouldn’t let me drive and never gave me a good reason why not. I don’t know if she was trying to protect me from a felony charge, or if she was trying to make some kind of statement to her mother and didn’t want me stealing her thunder.

Either way, it was the last time the world viewed us as equals. The world tended to deal more harshly with her from then on out. She was sent to the rougher “youth facilities.” I went to the more “progressive” places. She was labeled a marshmallow head while I was branded a cabbage head – the idea being that she was vacuous and without merit, whereas I was simply making ‘bad choices’.

For some time now, several months to more than a year, I have had the feeling that she was ‘gone’. Until now, depending upon the mood I might be in on any given day, I have either defined ‘gone’ as doing time, missing, dead, or even in witness protection.

The last notion, that of her being in the Witness Protection Program, tickles me a little. But my consistent lack of faith in her ability to stay clean makes this little fiction improbable. There are, I imagine, rules and procedures that must be strictly observed by any and all who participate in the Witness Protection Program. I don’t think a heroin addict could or would be trusted to walk the line.

If she were merely incarcerated, I don’t think I would have had such a feeling loss connected with her. After all, there is nothing of which I am aware that is so different about a life hustling behind bars than that of one hustling in the ‘free world’. I really question, however, if she had ever been free.

From my perspective, being “missing” would probably feel no different from being incarcerated. Besides, her whereabouts have been slippery and quite impossible for me to pin down since we were still teenagers. Michelle always appeared when it suited her, and disappeared when it pleased her to do so. (I often got the impression that she didn’t want to me to see her at her worst for fear that I would judge her. Sadly, she was right.)

So that leaves death. I have wondered what sort of death this might have been. Quick and violent? Accident or homicide? She used to tell me the most horrifying stories of very near escapes she had from johns who were bent on robbing/raping/killing her. Or was it a slow and lingering illness? Did she waste away in a hospital bed? Alone?

But today, July 1, 2008, I found out definitively that my friend Michelle is dead. I got this confirmation when I stumbled across an internet link to the Social Security Death Index search engine. There I found out that she died on November 24, 2006, the day after Thanksgiving. She was thirty-eight years old.

I am brought to tears when I think of what her last days or moments might have been like. Was there anyone with her at the end? Did anyone care about her comfort or try to ease her fears? Was she buried by the state or did one or more of her relatives bother to give her a proper burial? Was she scared at the end? Or was she relieved? Did she know that, in spite of it all, I still loved her as I did when we were children? Did she forgive me for being so hard on her?

I will probably never know. All I do know is that her energy, perseverance, and ingenuity were squandered as utterly and without mitigation as my talent, intelligence, and ambition have been. She’s dead now. She will have no opportunity to reverse this travesty. Whereas I am still alive...

Hollywood: A Giant Pack of Brats

Have you read about all this “Free Roman” fuss in Hollywood about the arrest and pending extradition of the award winning director Roman Polanski? I have, and it has left me wondering what the hell is wrong with these people. Do they really think a man should get away with drugging and raping a 13 year old girl, no matter how long ago it happened? Are they so enraptured by his talent as a director that they are willing to overlook the fact that he pled guilty to, and was convicted of, raping a child? Do they really think that we all should overlook it? What is going through the minds of all of these heretofore intelligent seeming people that makes it not only logical to let him get away without punishment, but actually imperative that he do so?

These are the thoughts that went through my mind over the last several days. I could not understand how a reasonable human being could think this way. Then it occurred to me that these people might not actually be reasonable human beings – or at least not reasonable ADULT human beings. I realized that these people were like little children who are in the store with their parents and find themselves mesmerized by a toy they are absolutely certain that their parents will buy for them. It matters not that there is no money in the budget for it. It matters not that they have plenty of toys at home and it is neither Christmas nor their birthday. Their eyes are all a-sparkle and their little mouths hang open just a bit and the entire world has faded from view, lost in the glow of their admiration and desire for this fabulous and wondrous thing. The universe is entirely filled with this sparkly and seductive new toy and there is no more room for logic or even a modicum of self control.

They thrust the toy in their parents’ faces and demand adulation of the creature from them as well. Isn’t it shiny? Isn’t it the coolest thing ever? Can they buy it, please, please, please? The hurt and betrayal in their eyes is so palpable that the parent who denies this greatest of all wishes must surely feel like they are abusing their child horribly and unforgivably with their swift and inexorable “no”. The child cannot understand why the parent doesn’t throw logic and responsibility to the wind and surrender to what must surely be their own equally unconquerable lust for this toy. How could they not understand that the child must have this toy or perish? How could they put any other consideration ahead of acquiring it? How could they say “no”?

I concluded then that what I thought had been the cacophony of Hollywood’s elite clamoring to support their dear friend and colleague, had actually been the chorus of enumerable 'inner children' desperately tugging on their parent’s sleeve and whining because Mom and/or Dad had the effrontery to say, “No. You can’t have the talented film director. The cost is too great. If we let him get away with raping a child, we may as well throw up our hands and not try to protect children from sexual predators at all.”

And, like a child whose disappointment makes them petulant and unreasonable, many of Hollywood’s movers and shakers will continue to sign protest petitions and spout nonsense about the why this was not really a crime and/or that it was so long ago, etc. But children need to learn they can’t have everything they want. It makes them better adults and enables them to function more effectively in the world when they grow up. Most of them do learn this lesson. And most of them eventually get over their disappointment, as well.

Eventually Hollywood will too. Won’t they?

Photo by 'Protopito goes to Nederland'

“England and America are two countries separated by a common language.”

These, the words of the immortal George Bernard Shaw, are as true today as they were on the day he birthed them. In this age of the internet, with online newspapers and a plethora of personal blogs, residents of both the United States and the United Kingdom have ample opportunity to witness this schism first-hand. This, and the decades of film and television from both countries flowing freely back and forth, has done nothing to mitigate the colloquial gap or deeply entrenched divergence in spelling which exists. Online purveyors of language learning materials offer both British and American English language packages from which their customers may choose - almost as proof that they are separate languages.

You don’t have to look very hard to find references in the popular culture of either nation to find this linguistic clash has inspired both well-meaning and somewhat cruel humor in written, audio, and video formats. British comedians can always count on abusing American speech for a cheap laugh. The same is true for American comics, I suppose. Although it always sounds less derisive and more warmhearted to me when Americans humorists are making fun of British English. I can’t say for sure whether the reverse is true.

As a child I was aware that English was spoken with different accents in different parts of the United States. I moved from west Texas to Ohio at the age of seven and was painfully goaded into quickly changing the way I spoke. I adopted the local, and so-called ‘normal’, accent with a speed that left skid marks on my palate. However, the first inkling I had that there was a difference between British and American English was when I received the grade for my first spelling test in the fourth grade.

The summer before, just about a week before my ninth birthday, I was introduced to my first English author, Charlotte Brontë. The book, of course, was Jane Eyre. This was soon followed by an introduction to Jane Austen in the form of Pride and Prejudice. My entire summer was subsequently filled with works by these two authors. It will not surprise most of those who read this to hear that this influenced my spelling to a significant degree. I had actually immersed myself in the world of early nineteenth century England, and came away with the habit of spelling things like color and humor as 'colour' and 'humour', etc.

I was confused and disappointed when I got back my spelling test. I had failed. And while my pride balked in reaction to this new sensation (i.e. failure), I was unable to deny that the page was blood red with all of the words marked incorrect. Later that day, the teacher, Mrs. Lucas (a sweet woman who was to teach me English and Social Studies for the next three years), took me aside and asked me about what I had been reading lately. While she admitted that she was pleased to see me reaching further afield than Charlotte’s Web and the latest Judy Blume book, she very kindly made it clear to me that while I lived in the United States, and was attending school in the United States, I was expected to adjust my spelling accordingly.

This, as indicated above, was my introduction to the ‘variability’ of the English language outside of America. Over the next several years I was exposed in written and aural form to English as it is spoken across the globe. Recent exploration on the internet informs me that an estimated 375 million people in the world speak English as a first language [1]. Linguistics professor David Crystal calculates that there are now three non-native speakers of English (who speak it as a second or third language) for every native speaker [2]. Furthermore, there are about 55 sovereign countries and another 26 non-sovereign entities in which English is 'the' or 'an' official language [3]. (The United States is not on either of these lists as it stubbornly refuses to adopt an official language.) All that being said, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the English(es) spoken in Hong Kong, Liverpool, Kingston, and Chicago will all sound quite different from one another. The fact of the matter is, if you take into account all of the different dialects and pidgin versions of English that are spoken around the world, American and British English sound a lot more similar than you might otherwise have thought.

So, why all the fuss? Why all the friction? It’s been 233 years since we gave England the proverbial 'finger', and, while there have been the occasional disagreements or minor tiffs since then, we haven’t actually been at war with one another since 1812, right? In fact, the US and the UK have been allies for so long now it seems incomprehensible at this point to view them as adversaries. Can you actually imagine either nation declaring war on the other in this day and age?

I suppose you could look at it like an old family argument that keeps rearing its ugly head at reunions. The US was the first of the British colonies to leave home and she did it with a great deal of drama and trash-talking. Canada and Australia lived in their parents’ basement for a few years after college, but eventually they each found a place of their own (within a ten minute drive to Mom and Dad’s place). And India - well India was the youngest child and benefitted from all of its older siblings wearing the parents down to the point where they just accepted the fact that they would have to live with empty nest syndrome.

I guess that leaves the US in the role of an otherwise beloved child who frequently reminds its parent that children will and do break your heart. Pride in her intermittent accomplishments is thoroughly mixed with despair over her unladylike behavior and inability to play well with others. You can almost hear the speech, “Your brother and sister are doing so well. When are you going to settle down with someone special and really commit to your career like they have?” - Or something like that.

So perhaps the occasional caustic remark about American speech or behavior which oozes out of the lips of English comedians can be attributed to something other than an active and widespread dislike of Americans throughout British society. At least I hope so. With the popularity of the United States around the world at its lowest point in history following eight years of George W. Bush & Co., it would be sad to think that even family members don’t like us anymore. If that's the case, we can add that to the long list of things for which Dick Cheney should be made to pay. Not that he would ever pay such a debt, but it's important to make a note of it for bookkeeping purposes.


[1] Curtis, Andy. Color, Race, And English Language Teaching: Shades of Meaning. 2006, page 192.

[2] Crystal, David (2003), English as a Global Language (2nd ed.), Cambridge University Press, p. 69, ISBN 9780521530323, http://books.google.com/books?id=d6jPAKxTHRYC, cited in Power, Carla (7 March 2005), "Not the Queen's English", Newsweek, http://www.newsweek.com/id/49022.

[3] http://tinyurl.com/37z65d

Photo by Richard Cawood

The Last Polite Woman in Town Gives Up

Or I certainly did consider giving up. After all, why should I continue to use the simple manners and courtesies that I learned as a child? So many others have apparently elected to forego the use of decent manners. Why should I be the last one to hop on the “rudeness, ignorance, and hostility” bandwagon?

I know, I know. I sound really bitter, and old, and cranky. But the truth is that I get truly and deeply tired of offering up timely and heartfelt apologies whenever I commit some minor offense against a stranger and then being treated as if I were a leaky bag of foul smelling garbage that had just been dumped on their front lawn.

Today, for instance, as I was deep in conversation while walking out of the grocery store, I lightly bumped into a woman as I passed her by. I quickly turned around and offered her an earnest apology as courteously as I could. Did she receive my apology genially? Did she smile and tell me there was no harm done? Did she even nod and go about her business? No. She literally rolled her eyes and curled her lip at me.

People, I don’t mind telling you that this kind of behavior really chaps my ass. In my opinion, if you can’t graciously accept a sincere and promptly offered apology, then you don’t deserve one. While fuming over this incident I briefly considered giving up on courtesy and manners altogether. That thought process went something like this:

That's it! I will no longer hold the door for the elderly woman walking just behind me. No more will I make an effort to allow others to merge into traffic ahead of me. From now on, I will leave my cell phone on and take calls in the cinema. The viewing pleasure of the rest of the audience who paid through the nose to see the movie is not at all important to me. When I approach a group of people waiting patiently for service of some kind, I will not ask politely where the end of the line is and fall quietly in place. Nope. No more. I will do and say exactly what I feel like whenever and wherever it pleases me to do so. From this point forward it’s “I, me, and mine” – the rest of the world be damned!

Yeah, well, okay. Once I cooled down it was clear to me that this isn’t the answer. But just saying it out loud made me feel a whole lot better. However, regardless of how good it felt to imagine myself being rude and self-centered, I know that the next time I am in public I will probably forget my bitterness and fall back on the habit of being nice just for the simple reason that ‘it’s nice to be nice’. Because, in reality, life is a lot easier when we all try to treat each other gently and with kindness. And I really do miss it when that’s not the way I’m treated by the world. I know that being rude to others will make me no happier than being treated rudely has. So, as trite as it sounds, I will ‘do unto others as I would have them do unto me’. At least then I won’t be part of the problem.

Photo by Calamity Hane

Why I Do Not Wear Fur

My Tweeps, the people who follow me on Twitter (@lunarmovements), have already been subjected to this story about my “fur hat”. Which, if you think about it, is a testament to the strength of my desire to share the story. Being limited to 140 characters at a time makes storytelling rather laborious.

When I was 18 years old and still living at home with Mom, there was an electrical fire in the apartment next to ours. I remember that we were passively watching TV in the living room after dinner and were ripped out of our boob-tubing stupor by both the klaxon-like blaring of smoke alarms and the frantic sound of our neighbor simultaneously pounding on our back door while screaming for us to get out of the building. While this was undoubtedly not conducive to proper digestion, it was a great deal more exciting than whatever was on TV at the time.

My mother and I both decided to grab the cats and flee the scene. She was at a loss as to what to do with the cats once we were outside, however. We did have a cat carrier, as I recall, but I think it was in storage somewhere in the basement. Anyway, I suggested that we take the cats to my car. My thought was that we could all sit out the event in relative safety there. And, if things got really bad, we would be able to drive further up the block out of harm’s way. These decisions were made within seconds and we each ran around the apartment trying to nab one of our two cats as quickly as possible.

I went after Pigitha – or “Piggy” as she was known for short. Her name implied that she was fat. This was not the case at all. She was a very enthusiastic eater and always had been – thus the name. Piggy was a very, very large cat. She was long and tall and weighed about 24 pounds. If it were not for her very traditional silver and black tabby markings, she might have been mistaken for some exotic wild animal due to her size alone. But there was nothing wild or feral about her. She was just huge, and, as it happened, not very fast. I caught her right away and headed outside with her towards the car.

I believe a word here is merited about this car. This was not the family car. This was MY car. And, while it was truly beloved for its ability to transport me wherever and whenever my whim would dictate, it is necessary to accurately depict how unglamorous a vehicle this was. It was a 1979 Ford Pinto (yes, a Pinto) which was originally yellow and had been painted a dark blue. I knew that it was originally yellow because of the paint that was constantly peeling off the fenders. It had a leaky transmission that required me to put in a quart of lovely red transmission fluid every five or six days. I don’t remember how many miles it had on it, but they were numerous. My only defense of the car was that it was fairly reliable and it was already paid for – two of the most important qualities a teenage girl from a working class family looks for in her first vehicle.

And so, I turn back to the story. By the time I got Piggy outside and into the car the firefighters had arrived. The sights, sounds, and smells of the experience were all more than Piggy could handle. She was squirming frantically and it was all I could do to hold onto her without getting clawed to death. But somehow I managed to get her into the car. I quickly sat down and shut the door, all the while expecting her to crawl into the back seat and cower quietly out of sight.

But this was not how she behaved. As soon as the door slammed shut she scrambled up onto the back of my seat and crawled up ON TOP OF MY HEAD. Almost instantly she curled around my scalp like a turban and clung fiercely to my hair. If you will recall I mentioned earlier that she weighed 24 pounds. So you can imagine this was an uncomfortable sensation.

My mother slipped into the seat next to me as I was quite fruitlessly struggling to remove the beast from my scalp. Between laughing at the spectacle before her eyes and explaining that she never did catch our other cat she also tried to remove Piggy from the top of my head. She too failed.

While all of this was going on a good number of firefighters were making their way back and forth from the fire truck to the apartment building. I sat quietly and with as much dignity as an 18 year old can muster while they each did a double-take at the sight of my “fur hat” and pointed at me and laughed with each other about it. This went on for about forty minutes and then Piggy suddenly decided she wanted to curl up on top of my feet.

My physical relief was immense. But my embarrassment would not abate until all of the firefighters were gone. Even if I weren’t an animal lover, I think this experience cured me of wanting to wear fur. I can with all honesty say that I have never had so much attention from so many men at one time since that day. And I sincerely hope never to receive that kind of attention again. To me, wearing fur equals profound humiliation.

Photo by Squeezebox Huf