Monday, September 08, 2014

Maybe not so sweet

Today I'm driving into the big city--Eureka, Calif.--to get my name changed on my driver's license. I had no idea it was such a big deal. But just like back in the day when you could scurry down the jet ramp in the terminal and greet your returning loved one as they passed through the galley behind the cockpit, or not have a credit card, or just decide to go by a different name, these days that doesn't fly.

So what seemed like the hard part, actually making the decision to change my name, was the easy stuff. Then I had to go to court.* then, instead of just waving my Real Court Document around, I had to down to Social Security in person and get a new card. Ditto for my driver's license. (Strangely enough, my employer, the United States Postal Service, was okay with me changing it online.) I understand; they are controlling documents after all. And another chance for California to collect a fee.

I of course waited too late to make an appointment so I'm going to have to take my chances with the rest of the risk-loving citizen mob. My timing will be tricky--I want to get there early enough to make it back in time for a lunch date, but late enough to swing by S.T.I.L. and pick up some new knee pads for tonight.

Yes, about tonight. I'm going to try going back to derby. I have reservations. Hesitations. Trepidations.

Back in May, when I was overwhelmed with emotion from my Very Shitty Year-and-a-Half, I abruptly quit the league. Wondering if my husband would ever be right again, losing my mom, panicking over the what-ifs about my brother's condition--because if what happened to him happened to me, I would throw my ass off an overpass--I just could NOT take any more slights, real or perceived, about being such a laggard about practice. Showing up late (if at all), unwilling to be aggressive on the track, being totally unwilling to take any criticism...And let me tell you, ladies, you haven't lived until you've had someone twenty years younger than you crawl up your ass about your lack of drive and athleticism.

Fuck. You.

Yet, just like horseback riding with its epic falls, derby, with its aches and epic bruises, was something I just cannot stay away from. Movement is my drug. So like riding I'm going to try again. But I still have some anger issues (reservations). I also have a gnarly bone bruise on my elbow and a sore back from a spectacular fall while navigating the cavalettis bare-back. My knee is scraped and sore from tumbling down my porch steps this Monday (trepidations). I am feeling banged-up and old, and that has me feeling hesitant.

Having Mr. Sports living at the house helps, as I have somebody to discuss sports psychology with. (G-man can riff on just about any subject, but not that one.) it's like having an in-house personal trainer. And my personal trainer says it's time to get back to derby.

Who falls down concrete stairs and doesn't even get a bruise to show for her efforts?!

(And the hoodie? It says "Trinity: When Humboldt isn't good enough")

*Okay, court. All I heard was, Show uo on such-and-such a date at such-and-such a time. I didn't stop to think the courthouse has three entrances, four floors, and any number of departments...So where exactly should I go? By the time I'd figured it out (and removed the pocketknife in my bag) I was late. My reward was sitting in the back and listening to the parade of restraining-order petitions. Can you imagine that as your job day after day? In a windowless room?

Two hours later the only people left in the court were the judge, the court reporter, the bailiff, a scrawny dude wearing a Breaking Bad t-shirt, and me. The judge looked at us. We looked back, andwith a confirming glance at Mr. Breaking Bad, I spoke up. The judge riflrd through the stack of papers on his desk, then looked up and said, "Granted. Pick up your paperwork any time after Monday."

I never did learn what the other guy was there for.

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