In Which Christina Tries to Find the Poetry in “Breaking One’s Ass at the Bowling Alley”

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Spoilers: There is no poetry in breaking one’s ass at the bowling alley.

And even sadder, this was not even my most epic fail.

So, picture it– the Ft. Leavenworth Strike Zone, moments after leaving a child home with her father, in a fit of rage and tears and possibly blood because the toy she’d ordered with her piggy bank money and which was scheduled to arrive that day did not in fact materialize with her sibling’s order. (This is an entirely different story of pain, anger, and ultimate redemption.) “I’ll just take Auggie and Mal,” I said. “It will be fun,” I said.

My lovely friends had set up the bumper lanes and there was an adorable little alligator slide for Auggie to push his ball down. We donned our stylish shoes and set up our screens. Then I proceeded to burn 4,000 calories whilst deflecting my youngest son’s attempts to bowl everyone’s turn, lift 10 pound toe-crushing balls, eat various snacks that did not belong to him, and essentially run betwixt and between every other human’s legs while they tried to send heavy orbs spinning down the intensely waxed lanes. All while trying to remember to cheer for my oldest son’s valiant efforts to hurl a ball only slightly heavier than his own person down a narrow lane using arms the length of a bald eagle’s wingspan and the width of a walky talky antenna.
Remember that “intensely waxed lane” part. I’m sure you can see where this is going.

So, all went All-American-Family well for about 8 minutes. And then Auggie decided he must and WILL follow the pink ball to its destination. The child may be shaped like an overstuffed Peep but he’s surprisingly fast. I honestly don’t remember anything but trying to grab his shoulder and taking 2 or 3 rapid steps when suddenly all was silent, I was closing my eyes, and the briefest of thoughts scrolled across my brain like a banner flying behind a retro bi-plane that I remember soaring across the cloudless sky when we would go to the beach as children: “ooooh maaaaaan, this is going to huuuuurrrrttt…”
I was not wrong.

I’ve fallen on my tailbone three times. Each marked by significant humiliation. The first time I had to pay my brother a dollar to go across the street and tell my mother that I was hurt and couldn’t stand up. (It may or may not have been payback for that time I broke his collarbone.) ((Bygones.))
The second time was in an English farmhouse at the lovely party of a dear friend. I had just reached my post-baby body goal and was wearing a darling vintage-inspired tea dress with my favorite seamed stockings and platform shoes. I remember every detail. I was carrying a beautifully delicate heirloom china plate to the kitchen, relishing the sound of my awesome shoes clopping across the old wooden floorboards, thinking how amazing I must look when–Lo there did I see the line of my people, back to the beginning. Lo, they did call me, they bid me take my place among them, in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave may live forever.
For I knew: I was going to die.
My friend’s two bulldogs. At a dead run. Where are they going? And why with such swiftness? I thought briefly as I continued walking toward them, as one continues toward impending doom. ‘Tis inevitable. ‘Tis fated.
Later, I would replay it countless times. I do to this day, 7 years later. There was nothing I could have done, save dive out of their path and into a curio cabinet or innocent bystander. My main concern at that moment was to preserve the plate. I don’t know why. In the same way I don’t know why singing Ole’ McDonald Had a Farm during labor helps me focus.
With each step, my shin met a solid, speeding animal. Two legs, two animals weaving betwixt and between them. Allow me to break it down for you: in the course of 2 strides, my legs made contact with a dog at least 4 times so that my body had no choice but to both pitch forward and then rear backward. And the whole time, my eyes were focused on that china plate. I watched it reach forward, rise up, and then float above me, ever connected to my hand, ever safe, ever preserved.
Not so my dignity.
Moments later, seated and swatting mortified tears from my eyes as stealthily as I could while assuring people–all the people–that I was fine, Sam showed up. Conspiringly, he leaned in, “Did you hear about the poor girl who fell? Legs up in the air and everything, poor thing.”
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The coccyx. Apparently a vital part of our anatomy. Having an injured one inhibits many activities, such as rising from a seated position at any speed other than glacial, bending down, picking up, laying down, lifting, etc. Standing is fine. Walking is fine. So essentially, I’m like the bus in Speed. I just can’t ever, ya know, stop. No problem.

I’ve tried blaming Amazon for this. Why couldn’t you put BOTH Dinotrux in the same effing box? And the United States Postal Service. Why couldn’t you put BOTH boxes on the same truck? Then we could have all gone bowling together and maybe Auggie’s impulse to run down a waxed-to-hell bowling lane would have been thwarted. But then…what if Sam had been the one to try and catch him? What if he’d been the one to fall and had reinjured his spine?
So let’s say this: I’m glad it was me.
Let’s also say this: We’re not taking Auggie bowling again for quite some time.

Dorian’s Palette

042414Made of failure,
constructed of disappointment,
she is set down before Beautiful
with her empty bowl
and her crushed being.

Twisted and untruthful,
plank-eyed and a great arm for stone throwing,
she is brought to Beautiful
and placed on her mat,
given her bowl.

Her portrait is a glossy masterpiece
in Vermillion
in Prussian Blue.
The brushstrokes are masterful–
a rich blending of evil
of intention
of all the good colors.

She holds out her bowl
to take up the collection,
the things she needs from others
to cover up her own contributions.

All her betrayals
and every dead thing
she’s made or believed
go into this bowl
as she sits on her mat.

At night she brings out her mortar and pestle.
She brings out the linseed oil.
She grinds the contents of her bowl into
lovely pigments
to correct her portrait.

But each morning she must
be carried out again.
Unable to stand,
she is set down.
She holds out her bowl.

Until she hears,
Look at me.

And she does.
Then.
Beautiful looks at her.
Beautiful takes her hand and
pulls her up.
Beautiful is where she’s always been.

Standing up,
her knife is no longer flat and dull,
no longer for mixing facade.
With the new blade
she can destroy her portrait.

When they ask her what has happened,
she will say,
I looked up. It is Beautiful.