Body of Evidence--a CSI Drama!

August 3, 2010


In the midst of all these leaded and lined school-time acquisitions, it’s probably natural that I turn some attention to my own self and wonder if it’s time for something new in that department as well. I’m not talking botox or tattooed eyebrows, though God knows both could probably do me some good in the right circles. Speaking of circles, I could use another nap. . .

I’d be lying, though, if I said I never pondered those parts of mine for which I’d be willing to call do-overs.

Back when I was a high-school swimmer, I remember considering it a high compliment when fellow swimmer Nancy Patoka said that I had horse thighs. Pretty sure I flexed those salacious slabs with just a bit more pride and vigor after she made her pronouncement. Whatever happiness those haughty hamstrings once brought me, though, has been replaced by the realization that they are now a landscape that looks something like the now-defunct Cool Crest mini-golf course. Eighteen holes, plus benches and landscaping.

Even my arms, always nice to look at, have come to resemble a dot-to-dot game in the doctor’s office more than actual appendages. I tell myself that the mottled spots scattered across my arms are signs of a life lived outdoors, rather than the promise of a future swimming pool for some local dermatologist.

As for my other appendages—my feet—I’ve always felt both proud and protective of these fine specimens. They are strong and appropriately proportioned, no one toe poking above the rest, the way SOME people’s feet do. And my toes are talented, too. With the toes of my left foot, I can make a peace sign or flip you off, depending upon my mood. The toes on my right foot can wave with the wonder of a small child, two toes bowing halfway in acknowledgement of a good friend or popular politician who is passing. Occasionally, though, someone tries to taint this fairytale love story, claiming my toes are large and lacking in feminine qualities. To them, I extend the middle toe of malevolence.

Each year that I return to school, a part of me realizes that my tethered balloon—the one that used to be close enough to my students’ ground that I could recognize both their lives and their loves—has tugged on its line far too long to keep me relevant in my students’ lives. Each year, I move in the wrong direction….my sad collection of school clothes conjuring up earlier times or long-ago Goodwill sales, my spotted arms revealing the first signs of twattle, my hair—its style seemingly frozen in time—nudging forth a little gray, not to mention all the new facial hair that keeps things interesting.

Curriculum, then, becomes more and more important to me with each passing year. Curriculum and candy. These days, I am hoping that a really good plan, coupled with candy and a shirt that has all its buttons and maybe some nice-smelling shampoo, can help scare off the students who otherwise might have crept a little closer just to check out my Boo Radley self. For them, I write magnificent plans. For them, even an intro!