Iron

I rest my case about California drivers--you know, the case about them being insane and having no common sense when they get behind the wheel of a car? Our big plan was to drive to the beach today. It's supposed to be about an hour and a half from here to Santa Monica, but when you drive during rush hour, and get sideswiped by a merging manaic who forgot that, oh yeah, he should probably check before he changed lanes, and pull off into the ghetto, and get lost, and wander in circles following a GPS with lingering unresolved childhood issues--well, then it takes about an hour longer. I couldn't tell you how I know this.

The pier was a riot, though. The girls made fun of me for wearing these cottony cargo pants that I love so very very much, instead of a dress, but when we pulled up and it was 69 degrees, they were laughing out the other side of their faces (which never made sense to me. Where does that saying come from, anyway?). It was cold. Glorious. I haven't been cold since the middle of July--every time I go outside, I melt. Everybody else was huddled in our blankets, but I got rid of my shirt and just ran around, loving the goosebumps and shivers and the lack of heat.

The best part, I think, was the giant...playground, I guess you'd call it, that was in the sand next to the pier. You know how you used to swing from ring to ring on the little kiddie setups? Imagine a row of rings 120 feet long, and 25 feet tall. There was this guy with a cast on his leg, but he got on one ring and started swinging, and I swear he just took off down the row. Looked incredibly effortless--you could tell he'd done it before. And since he never touched the ground, it didn't matter that his leg was broken. I wanted to be him, for a moment.

I also wanted to try it really badly. And I didn't. Mostly because I'm a coward--but also because there were scores of people around, and already on the rings, and let's be honest, I couldn't have reached them anyway.
Sometimes I hate how short I am. Clothes don't fit right, it's almost impossible to lose any weight using accepted means, and dating anybody over 6 ft is a problem--not to mention people think I'm about 14.

Of course, there are worse things. I stumbled across a picture gallery posted by a man who's in Somalia right now, working at one of the refugee camps. I didn't used to cry, you know. I had more self-control than your average Himalayan monk. But once you let something in, and let your heart get cracked into pieces to fit even more inside, it becomes a habit. And it was hard to be confronted with the reality of little kids who survive for a week on what I eat for a meal. It was appalling and heartbreaking, and I hated myself for being warm and well-fed. But I'm glad I found those pictures, because in a round-about way it made me absolutely sure that I am where I'm supposed to be. I can't do much now, but I will. I will finish what I started here, and I will go and feed people, and fix them, with my own hands, no space or stuff or selfishness between us. I will.