Catching up

19.  Harry Potter marathons

This one has a bit of a double edge to it.  Of course I love watching Harry Potter, I will even deal with the billion commercial breaks which turn an hour and a half movie into a three hour time-suckage.  What I don’t love as much is trying to explain the third and fourth Harry Potter movies to someone that is only barely watching and interested in the first place.  Yes, Mum, I’m talking about you.

Saturday, jet-lag hit me unexpectedly and I had to cut short our ‘City Hop’ around Cleveland.  On our return home, it was late enough in the day that I didn’t want to take a nap and then wake up at 9 and be wide awake until 3 and then try to sleep.  Getting the body clock right in the first instance is hard enough.  Luckily, there was a Harry Potter marathon in progress and my favourite of the early movies was just about to start.  I settled in with a blanket and a kitten and let the wonderfulness of Harry Potter and Gary Oldman wash over me.   Who needs dinner when Harry Potter is on the telly.

I am more than happy to try and explain the intricacies of Harry Potter if you are truly interested in getting sucked in.  I would be so happy to that I could probably whip up some PowerPoint slides and timelines to aid in your education.  However, looking up from the knitting from time to time and asking a constant stream of questions and providing commentary about  the unbelievability of the scenes before you (of course it’s unbelievable, it’s a story about kid wizards!) is not so welcome.

Regardless, Harry Potter offered a bit of comfort and home when I was wiped out and there is always room for a little dose of the Weasley twins.  And yes, the identical red-haired boys standing with the red-haired family are part of that family.  So is the red-headed girl.  (Sorry Mum, I couldn’t resist.)

  

18.  Weight Watchers

But not because of the lost weight, although that is nice.  Sunday I was thankful for Weight Watchers because of the renewed connection with my physical self.  What I gained from Weight Watchers was a respect for my body and health and an understanding that taking care of my physical health contributes greatly to my mental health.  About a year ago I was in a deepening hole and there were so many things I was unhappy with that I couldn’t see any way to grab hold of something to be happy about.  I felt I was failing in so many ways.  Shortly before my birthday last year I read a blog post in which a woman encouraged her readers to try Weight Watchers if they were feeling unhappy about their weight due to a change in the point system.  This was one of the facets of my failure, in my eyes.  So I decided to pluck up the courage and find a meeting near me and just show up and sign up.  If nothing else, I thought it could provide me with some social contact.  I don’t know if I can explain how hard it was to make that decision and actually get out the door and on the bus to the meeting. 

The first week was hard, but at the first weigh-in I had lost three pounds.  It was only a drop in the bucket, but it was something.  It had been hard, but not impossibly hard.  It was more about paying attention.  So I kept on and eventually I was at a stone lost!  

I headed off to our Cruise feeling fabulous and healthy.  In the past three months I had lost 14 pounds and started running.  I was also happier.  Not just because of the smaller sizes in clothing but, in hindsight, because I had gained control over some aspect of myself.  When I joined up in November, I had not felt in control of any aspect of my life. 

Yesterday, almost a year since that first weigh-in and a few pounds from my ‘goal weight,’ I was running my 5K and could feel my muscles moving in synch and could feel their strength and was very thankful that I took that first step 12 months ago.  It was a catalyst for so much healthy change and I was feeling so good I decided to go for 6K (which I have only done twice before).

I did it easily enough and celebrated by wearing my new bright red trousers to the theatre that afternoon! 

(the rest of the day I was completely wiped out and could barely enjoy the matinee with Grams and Gramps, but we’ll focus on the positive.)

17.  The bookshelves

In my parents’ house there is a room with floor to ceiling bookshelves.  The books displayed here are not, by any stretch, all the books in the house, but it is the critical mass of the collection.  There are artefacts from their hippy days and travel guides too old to be useful, legions of children’s storybooks and old theatre texts, a complete set of the Illustrated Classics and of course the Tolkien series from Silmarillion to Return of the King, two Complete Works of Shakespeare, a vintage Our Bodies Our Selves and even a pocket Declaration of Independence. 

Having finished the book I brought with me I turned to the shelves with a mind to find something new to read for the next few weeks.  I ended up grabbing Gone with the Wind.  Not so new.  As a teenager I read this book at least twice.  The one I read had onionskin pages and was printed with text in two columns on each page, ‘like the bible.’  Not a few days ago I had been telling my Mum I had recently watched Gone with the Wind again on TV and it had lost none of its magic. 

After the first few pages, I can tell you, the book hasn’t either. 

11.11.11

20. Veterans

Not much housewife-ing going on here.  A bit of reluctant housedaughter-ing, but that is a story for another time.

11.11.11

Is it auspicious or superstitious?  Should we be hording water and canned goods?  The retail industry in the US is putting on massive sales for the ‘holiday’ and the ‘once in a lifetime’ date and hedging their bets either way.

Is this really the way we want to celebrate our veterans? By massive sales?

If I was home in Britain we would be wearing red poppies and observing a minute of silence while snuggled into the couch with a duvet and coffee.  Or at least I would.  Pete would still be trudging off to work. 

When did the poppies disappear in the US? As a kid I remember old men selling them outside of the grocery store.  I had no idea what they were for, but I remember those men standing, painfully, in the cold, selling these tiny red flowers. 

We have a few poppies floating around our flat from years past.  I don’t know how they survive, by the end of the winter they are usually crumbled, curled, faded bits of red paper, but they are there in a drawer somewhere.  I can’t bring myself to throw them away. 

Do you know how I learned about the poppies?  Black Adder.  The last episode of the fourth season.  No one had ever explained the significance of these red flowers.  When I actually think on it, it makes my heart weep a bit. 

If you know me, you know that I am anti-war through and through.  But I will never be anti-soldier.  I may not agree with what they are ordered to do, but I will always be thankful that there are people willing to step forward and do it. 

Now if only we treated them better on their return.  If only we thanked them with services instead of sales. 

On another completely unrelated note, it’s my Dad’s birthday and as with last year, I am thankful for his example.  On this birthday in particular.  On the eve of his retirement from decades of wage slavery, he has returned to the stage, his first love.  At a time when many people give up their dreams, he has reached out and taken this one back.  It has not been an easy road.  He is still working everyday and doing rehearsals every night, memorizing Shakespeare’s words, and fighting off a wicked cold.  But he has done it. 

The veteran player has returned to tread the boards again and found that he’s still got it.  This particular dream is not ready for the ‘coulda, woulda, shoulda’ shelf just yet. 

Today I am thankful for those veterans that are willing to sacrifice their lives and those that rescue an almost sacrificed dream. 

Home-made memories

21. Public transportation

Give me the tube, strikes and all.  I forget how difficult it is to get around in the US without a car.  I know people manage but it really is a bummer. 

Sure, the big cities have public transportation and a car is unnecessary, but the majority of the population in the US need a car to get anything done. 

This morning I drove my mum to work so I could have the car for the day and run some errands.  The first few times I get behind a wheel again I am always anxious.  It is a far cry from my driving style prior to the great migration across the ocean, but I find slow and steady allows me plenty of space to be cautious.  In the busiest lanes and at the busiest times, I find if I go the speed limit I am usually left behind the rush and have all lanes to myself and can take time with my driving decisions.

This is what happens when you stop driving for two years, drive a motorhome for six months, and then return to not driving.  You become that woman who grips the steering wheel in the 10 and 2 position and sits bolt upright. 

I can’t have music in the car anymore until I know where I am going and get the new map straight in my head. 

It is an odd thing to be unfamiliar with the place you come from.  Cleveland still stirs an emotional response in me, but it is becoming increasingly unfamiliar the more I make a home for Pete and I in Greenwich.  But that’s part of the process of growing up, yes? 

It hasn’t got to the point where everything suddenly looks smaller.  Although I have yet to return to the Lorain county suburb where I went to High School.  I haven’t been back there in close to a decade.  Wait, that’s a lie.  We went there during the wedding extravaganza for a minor league baseball game.  But as that stadium is brand new and we didn’t venture any further, I don’t think it really counts.  There was no nostalgia attached to the event.  Part of the reason I have avoided this area of town is because I am a bit fearful of what I might find there.  I am sure it no longer looks the way I remember from my childhood and bursting those memories will not be an enjoyable experience.  I like my sunny, sparkly memories of Dunny Ave and Ferndale Park and Shoreway Shopping Center as they are.  Reality might be a bitter pill.

I know memory is a relative thing.  Hell, I wrote a doctoral thesis on the shifting nature of memory (among other things) but knowing it and seeing it are two very different beasts. 

I would like to keep my memories of my childhood home as they are, for now. 

Today I am thankful for public transport, not just because I miss it, but also because the missing of it makes me mindful of the two very different places that make up my idea of ‘home.’  The one I came from and the one I am making. 

Jet-Lagged Thanks

WOW!!!!

Are you still with me? 

Apologies for my absence.  The past weekend and week were a bit hectic and I didn’t make writing a priority (bad blogger/writer).

Now I am safely ensconced in my parents’ house in SouthWest Cleveland for the next month.  Without transportation.

Lord, what have I done?

Why did I think leaving my husband for a month would be a good idea? 

When I booked this trip, I thought a month away on my own would be a healthy and empowering experience.  And maybe it would if I had actually made some plans.  In an unexplained brain-dead moment I pictured spending my days catching up with old friends and doing some writing, maybe starting on that project I keep thinking about. 

But then I realized all my friends and family members have jobs and/or children.  I am the only ‘carefree’ housewife around with time to spare. 

So here I am, hanging out with the cats in my parents’ house, all the time in the world and nothing doing.  The cats make very boring housemates.  All they want to do is sleep.  Until I decide to make something to eat, then they want to fight to the death for my sandwich. 

Days of Thanks

I am behind.  Let’s see if I can get caught up quickly without too much waffling.

26. Internet Friends

This is a weird one, I know.  But in the last year I have made a few wonderful girlfriends all thanks to the internet.  Crazy.  On Saturday I met up with a few new friends in a pub to enjoy some cocktails and talk about a book.  Or at least that was the premise of our meet-up.   We didn’t do a lot of book talk.  We mostly just got to know each other and find some common ground.  Many of the women are displaced Americans which is always interesting to me.  I find it fascinating to see how other expats are blending culture and identity.  But what I found more fascinating was how many of us were currently identifying as housewives and feeling a bit ashamed about it. 

To be fair, I was ashamed about it at the beginning as well (as many readers will remember).  But the more women I met and the more I throw myself into being a housewife, the more uppity I get about that shame.  In the context of the book on the table and its thesis of declaring yourself a feminist because the work isn’t done, I will no longer feel shame or less-than for being a qualified woman that enjoys making a comfortable and happy home for her family of two.  And yes, I do enjoy it most days.  Sure there are days I resent the constant routine of housework, but how is that any different from my husband resenting the office he goes to every morning.  It is work that must be done and I am doing it.  Because it is ‘behind-the-scenes’ and unpaid it can be easy to fall into a trap of feeling like I’m not contributing.  And lord knows I have fallen into that sticky trap quite frequently.  But that trap is one that needs to be avoided.  If recent world financial history has taught us anything it should be that money does not equal ‘important’ or ‘meaningful’ contribution. 

I will not fall into that trap anymore, and I thank my new internet friends for showing me that I am not alone in my distress/enjoyment at this turn of events.  I see many housewives unite! meet-ups in our future.

25. Coupledom

Or more specifically, couple habits. 

This was our last day together for a month and between my string of minor freak-outs about packing at the last minute, we managed to throw in a few regular weekend activities to make the day seem a little more usual and spend some quality time together. 

The day before I apologized to the ladies at book club because I wanted to duck out early to spend some time with my husband before I went away.  I guess I felt that I was betraying my sex a bit by wanting to spend time with my ‘man’ over them.  They put me right straight away.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying the company of your husband.  Why did I feel I needed to apologise? 

(do you sense a theme developing here?)

There is a narrative out there that after a few years husbands and wives transition from loving partners to tolerating co-habitators.  I don’t know where this comes from, but I suspect TV is to blame (it’s always a safe assumption).  How many sitcoms have we watched in which the main comedic arc has to do with some ‘relatable’ domestic argument/misunderstanding? 

Just as I will no longer feel shame at being Dr. Housewife, I will no longer be ashamed of preferring my husband’s company over anyone else’s.  We chose together forever for a reason.  Each couple has their way of operating and Pete and mine simple habits are an important part of our coupledom.

24. An extra two feet

My Monday morning flight to Cleveland via Charlotte was made all the more easier by gently encouraging my seat neighbour to take advantage of the other empty aisle seats dotted around the plane. 

This may have been a bit selfish, but I see no reason why I (and my seat neighbour) should be miserable if there is a way to make us both comfortable.  I politely refused to give up my aisle seat due to my usual travel sickness and a need to be able to escape my seat when necessary for my tiny bladder.  Luckily, the elderly gentleman to my right was just ornery enough to not ‘carry on’ in the usual British fashion but take some initiative to secure an empty aisle seat for himself a few rows up. 

Lovely.

The extra two feet of personal space made all the difference in that eight hour flight and made coping with a 3+ hour layover in Charlotte slightly more bearable.   I arrived in Cleveland exhausted, but in a much better mood than usual following a trans-Atlantic flight.

23. Unexpected good weather

My first day in Cleveland was an unexpected sunny and mild day.  After waffling around for three hours in the morning and finding it was still not even 9am yet (thank you body clock?) I decided to take advantage of the weather and head out for a run.  It was Tuesday Fit-day after all and I thought some morning exercise would be a great way to get into the right time zone and flush out any residual bloating from the plane. 

It wasn’t my best time or effort and the scenery along my route through a southern suburb was not as impressive as the Thames, but exercise is exercise and I was very thankful that I was able to keep up my fitness without having to find a gym.  And, if I’m completely honest, I was surprised and proud of myself for taking the initiative to make my fitness a priority. 

I’ve come a long way, baby. 

Which brings us to today…

22. Trinculo

My cat.  He resides with my parents so I only see him when I visit and it takes him a few days to figure out who I am, but he is a cutie.  We are still in the remembering phase right now, but we had a good cuddle yesterday and he is slowly resigning himself to repeated interruptions to his day-long nap. 

He has also provided a particular poignant illustration in the complex relationship between parents and adult children.  He gets grumpy with me when I relate to him in the same way I did when I left him here as a kitten.  He has obviously matured into a grumpy old cat/cheeky adolescent with new habits and preferences and I am ignoring the changes in an attempt to relive/reclaim our past relationship. 

He is only a cat, but in order to have any relationship with him I have to pay attention to his new ways and preferences and accept that he is no longer my little boy. 

Today I am thankful for my cat and the lessons he continues to teach me about family dynamics. 

Two for One

You thought I forgot about you.  Not so at all.  I also did not forget about my promise last Friday. 

However, yesterday I was having one of the those great days where all your effort is validated.  I was too busy celebrating with baked goods and wine to put my gratitude into words. 

So today, you get two stories of gratitude and a soup recipe.  What a deal.

28.  A really great day

Yesterday was my first day of volunteering.  It has been a long slog to get a volunteer position anywhere and we moved our Moroccan holiday back so I could attend the interview for this position.  The slightly embarrassing part, for me, about this volunteer interview is that I applied for the position of the woman who interviewed me.   We also did our PhDs at the same university at the same time.  Regardless, I have the volunteer position and yesterday I walked to ‘work.’  It was a great fall morning.  The morning rain shower was over and it wasn’t too cold.  In a fit of optimism, to go along with my excitement about this first day, I packed a bag to hit the gym on the way home. 

The day went well.  It is a very self-directed position, but I got to show off my people skills, handled some Tudor artefacts, and proposed a new project.  Perhaps a bit overkill on the first day, but my boss sent me a very excited email at the end of the day, so I think I am on the right track.  It felt good to be back in this particular field and it validated my choice to step away from traditional Academia.

On the way home, I talked myself into actually going to the gym for my run.  Which at first I was regretting because running on a treadmill SUCKS HARDCORE after running on the street, but I sweat more than I have in a long time, so I figure that is a bonus.  When I got home and immediately ate a brownie and the last slice of pumpkin cheesecake, I felt completely justified in my snack choices. 

When the days are getting shorter and you feel your mood dimming with the sunlight, a day like yesterday is needed to remind you that it is just the season that is going dark, not your life choices.  It gives you something to talk about when the day goes dark at 3 instead of desperately looking for a re-run you can stomach watching, yet again. 

Yesterday I was thankful for this great day and the validation it brought to a very hard decision.

27.   Homemade soup

Another great part of the day was making dinner.  There are some days when I can’t be bothered making dinner.  It doesn’t usually come from exhaustion, but lack of inspiration. 

One of the contributors to our travel exhaustion at the end of Morocco was linked to food.  We were exhausted with the lack of choices.  For almost as long as we have wanted to go to Morocco, we have wanted to own a tagine.  A conical baking dish and the meal prepared within.  We kept ignoring the ones that would pop up at TK or at John Lewis.  We were determined to get an authentic one from Morocco.  After about Day 7, we were over it.  If I never see another tagine in my life, it will be too soon.   Don’t get me wrong, we had some wonderfully flavourful tangines in our 18 day adventure, but we also had a lot of not-so wonderful concoctions. 

On our first day home we made Potato Leek Soup.  It is an incredibly simple recipe.  But for some reason it is also a magical one.  I am not alone in this thought.  Julie Powell, author of Julie & Julia, cited Julia Child’s version as the spark for the year-long cooking project which ‘saved’ her life.  In my kitchen it served as a bit of a saviour as well.  But for our stomachs.  I was still throwing up from my last round of Moroccan Malaise and this stayed down nicely. 

Creating this very simple meal revealed to me perhaps why I was so reluctant to eat in Morocco near the end.  I had no hand in the creation of the food.  In this last year (and a bit) as a housewife I have found much joy and inspiration in cooking.  I complain and moan and pout, but overall I find it very calming to go through the motions of creating meal from scratch and watch it come together just as it should.  When my timing and rhythm is right, the plate-ing of a dish is the equivalent of a circus TA-DA.

Today, I am thankful for home-made soup. 

‘SPICY’ RED LENTIL SOUP

2 Tbl olive oil

1.5 tsp cumin

.5 tsp coriander

.25 tsp cinnamon & red pepper flakes

1 medium red pepper (de-seeded and diced)

2 medium carrots (peeled and chopped)

850 ml veggie stock

225g split red lentils

Salt*

Heat the oil in a soup pot.  Add the cumin, coriander, cinnamon & pepper flakes for about 30 seconds.  Mix with the oil.  Add the pepper and carrots and cook until tender (about 5 minutes).

Add the stock and lentils and salt.  Bring to a boil, then simmer until the lentils are tender (about 20 minutes).

Blend in whatever way works best for you.  I do batches in the blender with the steam vent open.  Others use a food processor. 

Serve with either a dollop of plain yogurt or onion bagel & Gruyere croutons.

* these are the measurements from the original Weight Watchers recipe.  I don't measure anymore and just sprinkle spices and salt flakes until it looks and smells right.  The spices are usually are a bit more equal in my version.

Showered in Gratitude

29.  a functioning shower*

It’s not much to ask for, is it?  It’s a very privileged thing to be thankful for, I guess.  Especially considering that many people of this world consider safe drinking water a luxury. 

But it was a rainfall showerhead with 5 trickles of rain that prompted me to turn toward Pete and say the following words.

“I think I might be an adult.”

Shocking, I know. 

This was at the end of 15 days of Moroccan Motoring.  We had returned to the cockroach hosting riad from which we began the journey 14 days prior.  At the time, 14 days earlier, it seemed exciting and exotic and the pitiful excuse for a shower just one of those quaint aspects of travelling that seem unimportant in comparison to the experience that lies ahead.  14 days later, I was recovering from my second round of ‘Moroccan malaise’ and arriving to yet another room of questionable cleanliness was heartbreaking. 

As I predicted in my final post in the Guest Series, Pete did wander the streets of Marrakech alone for the day.  But I wasn’t stressing about packing and to-do lists.  I was watching second-rate rom-coms, family-friendly comedies and a documentary about a basketball player on a TV Pete rigged to get the only English-speaking channel.  When the heat and stillness of the room got to me, I crawled to the bathroom and looked in dismay at the shower.  (I was crawling, not because I was that ill, but because the TV rigging required the room to be criss-crossed with cables that were precariously connected to various outlets and antenna.)  Surprisingly, this shower had a lukewarm setting and five streams of rain, so an improvement, all in all. 

In the course of the 15 day tour, I can remember about 3 passable showers.  Passable here had two requirements 1) luke-warm water 2) pressure greater than spit.  One of these three showers did not pass muster for Pete, as it apparently only had enough warm water for one shower that morning.  So that takes it down to two. 

I must take time out to tell you about one of these passable showers in particular.  It was in Ait BenHaddou.  For those movie buffs out there, this is the small market town on the edge of the Sahara that historically served as a stopping point for desert caravans to pay tax on their wares on their way to the bigger cities to the north.  Now it serves as a movie set.  First, for Lawrence of Arabia, in more recent productions, Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven.  Back to the shower.

When we arrived, Pete was suffering from his second round of ‘Moroccan malaise.’  On first viewing the shower attached to our room, I was not hopeful.  The showerhead was held together with grey tape.  As I was viewing this repair from the toilet I had to use side-saddle because the room was too narrow to sit properly without my knees pressing painfully into the opposite wall, or smacking my head on the way as I got up, I did not hold out much hope for this shower to bring any relief to Pete.

Turns out, the grey tape was to keep the shower head down, not up.  The pressure was so powerful that within 30 seconds of beginning my shower, the showerhead migrated upward so that the water was basically shooting out horizontally from the wall.  I had to stand about three feet away from the shower to catch the water as it arched back downward. 

Fabulous!!!!!!  I won’t mention that each shower threatened to flood the little closet that was our bathroom.  Oops!

So back to that last shower in Marrakech which prompted me to wonder at my arrival at adulthood on the eve of my 33^rd birthday.  It was a rude awakening, really.  On our first wedding anniversary, Pete and I made a list of things we would like to accomplish by our 5^th wedding anniversary.  One of those items was completing another expedition like the one on which we met. 

That day in Marrakech, we looked at each other and came to the realization that we may not be able to complete that list item in the way we hoped.  We were at the end of a 15 day tour which had many more luxuries than our previous African adventure, but we were much more exhausted mentally and physically than we ever remembered being 6 years ago. 

We have become accustomed to our home comforts.  We like our pillows and mattress just so, and we like our showers hot and pressurized.  It’s true that the drug of new love and adventure may be softening our memories of that first adventure to a cheery rose-hue, and we don’t wish to seem like spoiled city folk that can’t take a little grime in the pursuit of adventure, but after 15 days in a cramped car and two rounds of sickness each, we just wanted a proper shower. 

Today, as I prepared for another day in our home sweet home, the hot water suddenly gave out and I was immediately reminded of the beauty of the ‘developed’ world. 

Today, I am thankful for functioning showers and the revelations that sometimes come with the ability to bathe.  Or not. 

*I realize now that this must be very  important to me, because I was thankful for it last year as well.  I also realize that I am not alone in my desire for a functioning shower and as Lyn so very funnily relates, functionality doesn’t have to be flashy. 

My Body, My Self

30.   My Body

 

It has taken almost 33 years, but I am thankful for the body I live in everyday. 

Sure, I frequently wish it was a bit taller or my legs a bit longer or leaner.  I curse my thick calves almost daily.

But lately, my body and I have come to an understanding and I am very thankful for this new relationship.  Awhile ago I wrote about how, until recently, I didn’t connect with my body.  I viewed it as a separate entity.

Slowly, I have come to love my stick straight hair and unevenly long torso.  The more I run, the more I appreciate the muscle of my legs.  I spent years cursing the curvature of those thighs and calves.  Then I remember that those legs and accompanying muscles made me dance.  Those muscles made it possible to do something that I loved and those memories keep me very warm.    

Yes, those curves make it difficult to find trousers that fit to my liking.  At times I still get hot and bothered trying to squeeze into jeans that were not made for my particular curves, despite the marketing.  Okay, honestly, I always get hot and bothered trying on trousers.  I get increasingly frustrated because I am convinced I am not the only woman with curvy legs trying to find a suitable pair of jeans.

But today I had a thought.  Instead of becoming frustrated, maybe I should revel in the fact that my body is unique.  This particular set of measurements and lengths and curves is all my own.  And perhaps, as Karen would tell me, they are beautifully different. 

With all my complaints and angst and Weight Watchers, I am incredibly lucky in my body.  Yes the knees are knocked about a bit, the wrist is a bit weak, one thumb is permanently the size of an eight year old’s, but it is healthy.  It has never had any serious problems and the more I connect with it, the more it gives me in return.  Each of the minor ‘flaws’ I see are stories of my life.  The knocked knees from dancing, the wrist from dancing and writing, the thumb from a childhood bike accident.  (The thumb precipitated my husband’s first conversation with me.) The numerous scars contribute to the story.  A cat scratch, elephant skin, web burn, honeymoon snorkelling, a band camp accident. 

Today, on the first Day of Thanks, I thank my body for its work and am grateful for its continued support.