Practicing

When I was in kindergarten, you had to pass some basic skills test to graduate to grade school. One of these skills was skipping. I couldn't do it. I did some weird combination of a 1/2 skip, walk and jump. So, my diligent parents proceeded to skip around the house until I finally got it. I have no idea why this is such a vivid memory but it cracks me up to this day.

In my dancing days, my mother would pick me up from class and we would often stop at the grocery. I would be practicing my grand jetes through the aisles until she rapped me on the head. I used to be able to tuck my ankles behind my head. My dad would say, "The boys will love you." (He was KIDDING!) My mom would smack him on the head.

In grade school, I had to go to the doctor for booster shots. My mom caught me sterilizing a safety pin with alcohol and sticking myself. (I HATE NEEDLES.) She was appalled. I was practicing. (I told you I'm slightly autistic.)

I think the days of putting my ankles behind my head are over. I must be better about my fear of needles because I can stand a shot or having blood drawn, although I still hate it. I can still skip. I skip out on the oldies all the time.