These Legs

Who is tougher than me? No one. 

That’s what Cheryl Strayed says in Wild. And yesterday, I proved that no one is tougher than me. 

At 11:30 I called Atomic Lotus to see about getting a tattoo. I realized that they didn’t open until noon. Andy, the married guy who used to send me disgusting dick pics that I was too timid to berate him over, was there. At first I felt a sense of panic as I walked in and saw him. Then I thought, “No. You don’t get to make me feel like that today. Or tomorrow. Or ever again. Fuck you.” Not an angry fuck you, but a simplistic acknowledgment of his lack of placement in any part of my life. 

I walked up to the counter and showed the guy the Bambi card with grandpa’s handwriting. I said I wanted it somewhere on my thigh, not even realizing that would mean taking my pants off in front of what would most likely be a male. 

I took a seat between two people. Strangers. Something I normally wouldn’t do for anxiety. But I did. And I read Wild. Then a guy named Charles called my name. He ushered me up into the room where we’d do the tattoo. A calmness washed over me. I immediately realized I’d need to take my pants off. I slid them down around my hiking boots (freshly bought and never hiked in, but symbolic on this day) and he shaved a cold little spot on my thigh. 

I lie down on the table with my rear to him, touching his stomach. But there was no feeling of fear. I was bigger than that. These words were bigger than that. 

“You are on the threshold of your future” read the card and soon the ink inside my skin. Who is tougher than me? No one, I told myself. 

I picked my leg not because I have sexy legs. They are short and stocky from years of conditioning in gymnastics and have touches of cellulite all about them. They are pale white and don’t tan. They rub together and there’s no gap. But they are strong. It was these legs that walked into my destroyed home after a tornado and carried out my belongings; it was these legs that walked me into a funeral home to see my grandmother laid out, cold as clay; it was these legs that walked the halls of Norman’s ICU for days as my father died; and these legs walked in heels through the snow to bury him; these legs carried me out of the house I was raped in; these legs failed me on nights I drank too much to forget; these legs carried me into my first AA meeting; these legs have run many miles; these legs have been baptized in the waters of Port Aransas on the day of the May 20th tornado; these legs have walked down the aisle in front of my best friend before she got married and they danced with abandon at her wedding; these legs have gone so many miles; and it’s these legs will walk me across the stage this spring to get a diploma; these legs will dance at my wedding; these legs will bounce a baby on them — these strong, thick, cellulite-bumped legs; these legs will carry me through the wilderness; they will take me on more journeys, dark and light; and they have yet to give out on me, so I’ll be damned if I give out on them. 

Those legs carried me out of that tattoo shop, head held high, my grandfather’s own words burned permanently into my flesh until the day this body burns or decomposes. 

I hiked that day for the first time, in those unused hiking boots brand new out of the box. I got them wet, muddy, dirty, and let them consume the soles of my feet on the trail just as I let the trail itself consume my own soul. As Cheryl Strayed said, “Everything hurt. Except my heart.”

That night I dreamt that three men harassed me. A recurring dream I’ve had for years which usually ends with me silently screaming for help that never comes. But this was different. In the dream, I simply told each man I didn’t appreciate the way he was acting. People agreed. People took my side. I was no longer victim. 

I no longer want to be the victim. I want to be the heroine of my own story. I want to be wild again. 

I will never let these awful things that the world has dealt me break my spirit. 

I will never let them tame me.