Achilles heel

Outside of random taunts from boys and stray whispers from snobby girls, I was fortunate to escape significant childhood torment. I was not the girl shunned in sixth grade who eventually transferred to a private school. No one ever tried to give me a "breezer," (i.e., to pull down my pants from behind). Although part of me wants to give myself credit for this, I know it has a lot to do with luck.

Because at age four, I was unlucky.

I spent my afternoons then playing with neighborhood pals Peter and Michelle. Usually Peter and I would cut through the hole in my hedge, passing by the lilac bush area that we called The Yoda Zone, and cross the street to Michie's house (We called her Michie-Mushy when we were feeling mean). I don't remember anything about those afternoons except for their favorite game, the one they played over and over: hide my boot in the freezer.

For some reason, this would make me cry. My boot... in the freezer.

They'd taunt me with it, not giving it back, watching me get frustrated and teary-eyed.

One day I'd had enough. Wearing my one boot, I hobbled home through the slushy snow. I'm not sure what happened, but Michie and Peter and I went on to spend many years playing happily together, and they never played tricks on me again.

...Maybe what happened was us meeting Jordan, the neighborhood kid several years our junior who kicked his own butt when he ran and whose mom called out "Yoo-hoo, Jordie" when it was time to come in.

For him, we invented a new game. Whenever he came to play, we'd yell "Jordan alert! Jordan alert!" as we ran away and hid.

But hey, at least he got to keep his shoes.