One of the items on my 2019 Goals Bingo card is "Play in an Ultimate tournament." I haven't played ultimate in a year. When I did play (on a broken toe), I managed to jam my right big toe so badly that I believe I tore a ligament, maybe two. Before that, I hadn't played in four or so years, and now I can't run more than 100m before I have problems with my hamstring.

My hamstring.

The f'ing hamstring I pulled twelve fucking years ago, STILL f'ing giving me problems.

Of course, my thoughts now when I pull something, break something, tear something, injure yet another something involve trying to determine if this is a temporary injury, or, "Welp, that one's going to be with me for the rest of my life." Falling down the stairs and pulling a shoulder ligament? Yeah, that one's with me until I die. The little toe break from last year? Who the fuck breaks a little toe? Yeah, this girl.

Anyway, I want play in an ultimate tournament this year, even if it is some pickup team at some small didn't-make-regionals tournament, I don't care. I want to play.

And that hamstring is stopping me.

Except I am no longer convinced the problem is my hamstring. I was telling myself the story about how my hamstring weakened and in the weakening lost the supporting muscle that kept everything in line and the injury quelled.

But what if I'm wrong?

What if the problems I have, the intense pain ALL THE TIME in my hamstring, the inability to sit still (well, have always had that one), the sudden weakness in the hamstring when I'm running, the inability to sprint, what if it isn't my hamstring, but something else?

Say, something along the lines of the commonly know (dun dun DUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNN) ... sciatica?

Fits the symptoms. Could be I'm "normal" (for some definition of "normal"). Could be....

And so, today I begin my journey back to the ultimate field, fuck this fucking injury. I looked up the stretches, managed all six, noticed that, uh, hey, I have lost a lot of flexibility, better not rush that process. I added these stretches to my daily routine, just after the 108 soon to be 126 daily pushups. And I figured out, I can read or put on my current earworm on repeat, and be productive while on the road back to breaking myself in old and interesting ways.

One.

My birthday is coming up. This particular birthday is a difficult one, by far the most difficult I've had so far, for various reasons. I tell myself that it is only a day, like the day before, there is nothing special about the day in the cosmic sense...

And still, I struggle.

Two.

We have a rule in my family, and by "my family" I mean "all the incarnations of my family," that you don't buy anything for yourself in the month before your birthday, nor do you buy anything for yourself after Halloween. You can express desire for items, but the purchase is left to your loved ones to gift to you on the oh-so-auspicious holiday.

Three.

My favorite pen is the Papermate Write Bros. medium point (1mm) stick pen with blue ink. I have been using this pen for a quarter century now. It has been slowly disappearing from shelves, with Amazon being the only location I can find them these days.

I buy them in bulk. I use them up. I lament my diminishing supply.

Four.

"Your birthday present is in two parts."

I looked over at Jonathan with a smile on my face. His birthday present this year was also in two parts. They were also one of my more spectacular Homer gifts.

"Do you want them now, or actually on your birthday?"

Anticipation is part of the delight of gifts, birthday and Christmas. You don't known what the gift is, it could be anything. The hope, the excitement, the thoughts that this could be the gift, the moment, that COULD CHANGE MY LIFE.

"Um.... right now?"

The first part of the gift was A BOX OF THE PERFECT PENS.

I squee'd with delight. Pen desert postponed for another year or so, or until I lose all of these pens, too.

But the second part?

My squee with the second part dwarfed my first squee!

A Baron Fig Squire Rollerball pen!

Jonathan may have found the replacement for my perfect pen.

The pen is nicely weighted and has a similar feel as the iPhone SE, which is to say, a strokable surface that keeps my hands busy enough that I don't pick or pull or pop or twist other things that really shouldn't be picked or pulled or popped or twisted.

Imagine that, a pen and fidget device in one!

Way SQUEE-worthy!

Thank you, Jonathan!

The pen is mightier than the sword.

I'm a fan of Little Lending Libraries.

Which means, when I have a book that I've read but don't want to keep, I'll take it to the nearest LLL and drop it off.

Which is what I did with my physical copy of Fight Club.

The key part of that "which" is "the nearest."

Which may not may have been the wisest move on my part.

Said nearest Little Lending Library was a childrens' books LLL.

That loan might be a shock.

Talking with the Little One today, I asked him about his recent successes at his school's field day. He was competing in the high jump, and I was wondering how he did, I thought he had won.

"The high jump was rained out. I won the long jump."

Well hot damn, that's exciting!

It reminded me of my junior high's field days. And, since I'm not talking with the Little One right now, I can sit and think about them for more than a short bit, because I'm not shifting focus away from The Little One's successes or the celebration of such. v important to me not to do that.

I sucked at athletics in school. I'd argue that I never found the grace a life-long athlete has, even as ultimate dominated my life. There's a balance, a stance, a movement, and a grace that people who have been in sports since elementary school have. I'd argue that I had none, and I'm grateful for those who argue against me on that point.

And still, I have to wonder how different my life would be, how differently I would think about myself, had I not been the small person I was growing up, the one taught the fragility of life at 5, not to trust what you see at 9, powerlessness and learned-helplessness and the story of being a victim. Stories that echo in my thoughts to this day; stories I fight against every day.

I had moments of brilliance, accidents of circumstances, or the advantage of a quirky body I have, that should have told me I was more than I thought I was, I could do better. At ultimate, the surprise of skying all the boys at beach ultimate in Santa Monica, the go-go-gadget-go moment at SF revolution, the Air-Kitt catch of Charlie's throw at SBUL. They existed, but they were rare.

Even before those, though, when I was as young as the Little One is now, younger even, those moments existed. I didn't listen to them.

We had some sort of indoor decathlon or mini-Olympics in gym where we were split into groups of 5 or 6, and rotated through different events. The advantage of the setup was that the gym teacher didn't have much to do after explaining the events, as we were nominally self-regulating with the group reporting.

One of the events was the standing long jump. I crushed that event. I jumped 6' 2", which was far enough beyond both what others were doing and my nominal physical prowess that the gym teacher (yes, to no one's surprise, Miss Davies) didn't believe the reporting that the other girls in my group provided, and made me jump again. Pretty sure I jumped farther in my proving jump, to the gym teacher's surprise.

Or a year later, different gym teacher I recall, where we self-pitched softballs and hit for distance. I didn't hit the farthest, but I did hit far beyond the expectations for what I normally did in gym class, and was called up to prove I hadn't cheated.

Come to think of it, having the world doubt my successes probably contributed to the continued stories of physical weakness I told myself. Didn't think of that until now.

I also have to wonder, how much of not moving those moments from rarity to common stance had been in the stories I told myself?

What inaccurate stories am I still telling myself?