Defying Genetics (& the final word on the price of my soul)

I have a personal mission to overcome my body’s natural inclination to be a certain size. To prove that we are all more than the sum of our parts, not simply limited by our genetic code, to show that I am in control.

Yes, friends, I’m on a mission to prove that just because I’m naturally inclined to be skinny I too can be overweight.

Okay, okay. You’re all rolling your eyes, right? But what is it about getting to a certain age that makes weight that much harder to lose?

Oh, and that’s what we call a rhetorical question. I do not want a scientific explanation. I just want to complain. What’s that? Rolling your eyes at me again? Hey, at least I’m honest!

This year has officially sucked on the whole ‘treadmill commitment’ thing. Some of you will remember I put my back out a few months ago. Shoveling snow. Yes, that’s right, that’s what it really was, not anything else.

I actually put my back out just over a year ago. I decided to dig out a flower garden. The soil there was nearly dead, and I knew I had to replace it. Not only that, but I dug up a dog skull and a few other bits and pieces and decided it was deep enough. Then I started moving bricks… Well, you get the idea.

This all goes back to something that happened when I was a kid. I was running along the beach and landed on broken liquor bottle. I screamed bloody murder across Lake Muskoka that day, and it was bad. It was 1980, and in Canada that means we were just heading into the tainted blood scandal era. Of course, I had no clue about that at the time, nor did a lot of other people. But we’d walked to the beach, a good 15-20 minute walk for a kid from our house, and it was another 20 minutes driving like mad on the highway to the hospital. We flagged down a ride to our house, fortunately, or I would have had a blood transfusion for sure.

As it was, it was touch and go. I still remember the lovely doctor, Dr. Daniels, who walked in, looked at me, sighed and said, “IF you don’t stop screaming, I’m going to cut your foot off.” I thought then it was a threat. I suppose he might have been pointing out that when a man with a sharp instrument is performing delicate surgery and someone screams in his ears, anything can happen, but that didn’t register in my brain then.

All I could do was grip the bed rail as hard as possible and clamp my mouth shut and cry. (This all happened just before my 9th birthday, btw.)



My scar curves up the outside of my right foot, about an inch. It goes across my foot on the bottom, about 2/3 of the way across. I even had disintegrating stitches used inside on the muscle to help in mend.

And after what seemed like a very long time, I had to relearn how to walk.



Of course, I didn’t know anything about blood flow to injuries back then. But my body was pumping all its natural goodness to my right leg, because of the injury.

So, guess what folks? My right leg is a bit longer than my left leg. Just enough that occasionally, I trip over my own two feet and look like a complete idiot. Other people need something to get in the way to trip them up, but no no, not me. I can fall flat on my face without any assistance! I’m special that way.

Are you starting to figure out where this is going? Yep, the inevitable repercussion of having one leg longer than the other and not knowing for a few years. My spine compensated too, bless it. I have minor scoliosis.

Kevin always says I’m defective and he’s working on the warranty. Damn, if I were him, I’d want my money back. We haven’t even talked about the time I was hit by a car and the scar on my head as a result.

So, now that I’m in my 30s, I find my body is protesting a bit more. My knees are grumbling about a strike. My butt is insistent that it prefers a double cushion because it’s taken enough falls.

I got thinking about this yesterday. Because when we sprain our ankle, for example, it is often weakened for life. But if you break a bone and it mends, it’s usually stronger.

There was something that happened that prompted yesterday’s post. I’m not going to talk specifics on it.

I already knew what I was going to do before I put the post up. It was a process of getting to that point over the weekend, but I had someone who talked some real sense to me, who put my head on straight, who showed how wonderful and compassionate they are. And someone else reminded me, again, of why I think he’s a great guy and... Well, let’s just say I’m lucky. I’ve got great friends. Wise friends.

Still, I tried to check my “I don’t give a fuck” attitude at the door when I wrote that post. Because it is always possible that, in your own natural desire to defend yourself, you overlook legitimate points about your behaviour. I’m not perfect, and I figured that if anyone who knows me from here had something to say on it, I should be open to hearing them. I can be self-righteous with the best of them, but I was trying to keep an open mind.

At the same time, I felt like it wasn’t bad for everyone to consider. It may have happened to you already, it may never happen, or it might be just around the bend. Even Stuart recently blogged about getting a critical letter from someone inferring he was too full of himself. (Puhleeeeeze. I mean, if you’ve ever met Stuart, full of himself? That’s pretty damn funny.)

Yep, as Amra pointed out, I care too much. But if you know why you’re blogging, what you’re doing here, then you’ll be okay. What matters is that you can look in the mirror and know that you’re good with yourself.

Everything after that is just gravy. And I’m really lucky, because I’ve got friends who give me so much encouragement and support. You’re all beautiful.

Except Brett. Brett’s post gives a glimpse to life inside Killer Year Clubhouse that you won’t want to miss, but I’m not sure I was prepared to flash everyone week 2…It is my crisis day, right? Or is Toni after that again with her breast problems?

Giving Birth To A Blog!

And this one’s special! Because it’s mostly Canadian! Welcome Vicki Delaney, Alex Brett, Rick Blechta, Michael Blair and Charles Benoit to the blogsphere with Type M For Murder! You’ll see Vicki’s name in the special Canadian issue of Spinetingler, out in July, and Rick Blechta is the president of Crime Writers of Canada. Go over, meet the gang, say hi!

And talk about a news flash…