The Pillars of Support

The worst thing anyone can do to me is kick me in the shins. My life's mission has been to jealously defend these pillars of support from bumps, bruises, and most of all kicks. This nurturing relationship began when I was seven years old. I stood alone in my spacious wilderness of a backyard at the foot of our CedarWorks swingset, bored with swinging and seeking a new challenge. There was a ladder positioned at an angle to give the climber access to the splintery monkey bars. As I gazed at the first rung, a wonderful idea came to me. Instead of using my hands to carefully guide me up the ladder, as my mother had always instructed me, I realized that I could jump to the first step. I assumed a half-squat to prepare my legs for the powerful leap. My pulse quickened with the thrill of danger, my eyes fixed on the goal.

I jumped.

I experienced a second of euphoria as my feet made contact with the sturdy crosspiece, and then sheer terror as my momentum caused my shins to make contact with the rung above. Immediately I fell backward as the worst pain of my life surged through my legs, immobilizing me. As I lay on the ground sobbing, the embarrassment of my sheer stupidity burned hot on my salty face. Luckily, no one saw me.

From that moment on, I vowed to always be kind to my shins. It wasn't easy, as I was an avid soccer player throughout my elementary school years, and on to high school. At recess time, even during the frigid Maine winters of my childhood, I was the only girl permitted to play with the boys. This honor meant that I was never allowed to cry, no matter how bruised and bloodied my shins would get from a misplaced kick with a slushy boot.

My shins also saw me through an important rite of passage for the preteen girl - shaving. I had begged my mother to let me remove the ugly golden hairs from my legs for months, and at last she caved in. As I stood in the shower with my freshly lathered lower leg, brand new razor in hand, I realized I didn't know what to do. I tried lightly running the razor over the skin, but the prickliness was still there.

So I pressed hard.

And removed a large, bloody sheet of the skin protecting my shin. I did not shave again for six months.

Years passed. One day my older brother discovered my weakness, and from then on he would kick me in the shins whenever I pissed him off. Which was quite often during our teenage years.

In high school, my shins got fed up with me. I had forced them to simultaneously participate in grueling soccer and dance practices with little rest. They rebelled with their own form of torture, "shin splints". Stubbornly, I refused to heed their complaints and continued with my exercise regimen. The pain became so severe that I eventually gave up soccer forever.

My shins occasionally ache today, although I no longer subject them to overuse. I have been to numerous doctors, but none can account for the lingering pain. Perhaps I shall always carry that twinge of discomfort with me, as a reminder of a broken childhood promise.

Be good to that which holds you up. Although you will be forgiven most of the time, it is not without a cost.