Nose

I’ve never liked my nose. Especially since fifth grade. In fifth grade, two boys were determined to make me hate my trunk. Yes, of course I remember their names, but I can’t give them the satisfaction of mentioning them on my blog. The worldwide accolades… Not really. They did go through a phase during which they called me “Long Nose”. They also told me not to look at them, lest my schnoz poke them in the eyes. That was a tough year for little me. My family moved, and I wound up with a haircut reminiscent of a mushroom. I remember specifically requesting chin-length. As I was traipsing around southern Missouri with a fungus-like haircut, I wore an empire-waist top. One day on the playground, I was asked if I was pregnant. Bullying is for real. I guess what I’m trying to say is fifth grade was hard.

For the year or so after my stroke, I avoided cameras almost entirely. Almost. I couldn’t even put on my own makeup. I still can’t. But have you noticed my nearly yearlong absence from the Internet? It was not an accident. But it is not my job to look cute and adventuresome. It is, however, my job to get better. And the parents of my nephews know about the “you break it, you buy it” nose clause.