At the end of the semester my teacher pulled my final exam paper out of my cramped, clenched, nerveless fingers and said, “You’ve got success written all over you.”
I’m going to have that printed on a T-shirt. I love the idea that I have things written all over me, the same way I love college. In college nobody complains when you use hefty pretentious words and think deep thoughts—out loud and in front of people.
Then I go home and the guy with whom I have mixed DNA in the blender of love says, “You gonna fire up that stove any time soon?”
And I say, “I did. Last week. You remember?”
So, I’m going to get another T-shirt that says, “I’m too short to cook.”
Because I am too short to cook, and my face is way too close to the fire, and I get sparks and grease in my eyes, not to mention all the scary murderous knives sitting around the kitchen waiting to stab people to death.
Or I’ll wear a T-shirt that says, “Kiss the Short Chick. Order Takeout.”
I just wish I had success written all over me, all of the time.
Unfortunately, sometimes I have “Help me! I'm melting!” written all over me; usually in the middle of the night when I’m sneaking around the house attempting to turn the thermostat down to a temperature approximating permafrost to combat the effects of hot flashes that are hotter than a pot of boiling lobsters.
I need a T-shirt that reads, “Caution: I’m hot. Literally.”
I once went to church and had someone tell me, “Linda, we’ve just chosen you to be the person most likely to be burned at the stake.” I would rather not discuss the individuals who thought I had this sentiment written all over me. I’ll just call them the grand inquisitors in pointy hats crowd.
In this case, I should wear a T-shirt that says, “Joan of Arc is my Home Girl.”
Once, in a Tae Kwon Do class, and about the time I was feeling swift, strong, and capable, my body on its way to becoming a honed instrument of confident death dealing against the knife toters out there—also mean people—the lady behind me tapped me on the shoulder.
Randomly, I executed a powerful roundhouse kick through the danger fraught air next to her face. Kick. Snap. Retract. Rub surreptitiously at the thigh cramp.
She narrowed her eyes at what she might have thought of as my pointless leg flailing and said, “I’m not sure if you know this or not but you have a dryer sheet stuck to the back of your uniform.”
She plucked a dryer sheet from the back of my martial arts uniform and handed it to me. I tucked it into my lovely purple belt and practiced more powerful leg flailing at imaginary mean people.
That day I had, “Hey, Dork, you have a dryer sheet stuck to your shoulder!” written all over me. I vetoed that T-shirt.
People in my Zumba class have told me that I should get the “Having the most fun!” award, and that’s a T-shirt I could get behind. Or maybe it could say, “Getting my money’s worth.”
When they say bump, I bump. When they say grind, I grind, and sometimes I throw in a poorly executed martial arts kick for old times sake and to see if my hip socket still rotates that far.
Here’s hoping that whatever’s written all over you is inspiring, noble, grand, and true—most of the time.
Linda (Write On!) Zern