"Nice try, dip-wad," (my first use of that epithet since like sixth grade), "'I Live Where It's Gray,' The Horseflies, from their criminally underrated Human Fly album, 1988, Rounder Records. I was grooving to it while you were still in diapers."
"Fine," the dude retorted, kind of put in his place, as he re-donned his sunglasses, "so you're hipper than I, but you still got butt ugly legs to be parading about."
"Cannibals drool. Beat that on your ultra-cool index."
"Oh shit dude, you've just like ruined my whole astrological chart for months," he moped and slithered away.
Time was, though, even in jest, my legs could never be described as "nice." Recalcitrant and incorrigible, but never nice. You see, I'm a Gemini with a bit of a Libertarian streak, and while I certainly pay heed to the whole "my body is a temple thing," my temple is, well, kind of ecumenical, and I've always allowed my limbs, the apses if you will, or whatever fits appropriate to the whole temple metaphor, a fair bit of autonomy. Anyway, about ten years ago, my legs, it seems, finally hit their rebellious adolescence.
My knees would knock violently in my most serene moments, at first leading me to believe I was becoming a full-blown scaredy-cat, but then I realized it was just my legs, fighting like 14-year-old twin brothers. One night I woke to find my left leg had wrapped itself around the back of my head and had written a list of grievances on the sole of its foot. Obviously feeling slighted because it was the "weaker" leg, the left took umbrage at always being the bottom leg when legs got crossed, at never being the one to absently kick a stone while walking down a road, at never (underlined three times, this never) being the foot, while I was deeply engaged in the rituals of courting, that was the designated "footsie" foot. What could I say, or do? It was three a.m., my leg was wrapped around my head with my left foot two inches from my nose. I stammered out apologies, made grandiose promises of atonements, even swore to put the less hole-y sock on it for a year straight. My harried pleas seemed to work; soon I was asleep again in a much less-contorted position.
I admit, though, paying such conscious attention to one leg in particular soon wore thin, and soon I was back to my old ways. Tha's when my legs--the left at first, but soon the right followed, jealous of the attention the left was getting--started really acting up. Uncontrollably they lurched themselves out to trip unassuming passersby, kicked dinner partners under tables, spasmodically stumbled over the foul line at the bowling alley, ruining my average and eventually getting me kicked out of my five leagues. One night, things finally came to a head with my legs. I was up late watching TV when an infomercial came on about RLS. I had started to watch thinking it was about the great author Robert Louis Stevenson, but alas, it was about Restless Leg Syndrome. As they started describing the symptoms and the ensuing wreckage wreaked by the horrifying syndrome, I noticed my right leg shaking like a crystal-meth-jonesing stripper (or, um, what I imagine such an unfortunate person would look like). Fully enraptured now by the infomercial's info, I hastened to turn up the volume (okay, I must confess, turning up the volume wasn't as easy as pushing the up-arrow button on the remote and seeing those bars light up on the screen as some not only totally superfluous but also meaningless number starts increasing; you see this was my "throw-back" weekend, a little annual ritual I celebrate to get back in touch with my dearly Proustian childhood in the 1970s; in short, I attempt to live that yearly weekend in as close an approximation to 70s life as possible--no bottled water, no Internet, leaded fuel in the jalopy, dreams of Farrah nightly, dial phone [God, remember the pleasures to be had stabbing and hurling those quick 2's and dragging out those long, dizzying 9's and 0's?], and no TV remote, to name a few of the lifestyle adjustments I make). Anyway, I had to get up off the couch and walk all the way over to the TV set to turn the volume up so I could learn fully the horrors of Restless Leg Syndrome before my right leg managed to completely bounce its way off and away from my body (a definite schism if you're still following the body is a temple thing). So I roll off the couch, take one step toward the TV and the volume button (much to my disgrace, I don't own a vintage 1970s TV to use during my throw-back weekend, one with a proper volume knob), and wham I hit the floor, though not before banging my mouth on the coffee table (um, and the various Hot Wheels arrayed on it).
To make a long story a bit less long, after stitches in the emergency room, oral surgery, and finally hitting bottom and succumbing to year-long analysis with a psychiatrist who specializes in "limb-therapy," it came out in one very intense session that while my right leg had skittered down the decadent dead end that is RLS, my left leg, not to be outdone, willfully turned himself into a narcoleptic: when I stood up to raise the volume, Lefty was fast asleep, thus offering me, the nave, or whatever of the temple, no support; down I went. Anway, through much therapy (wouldn't you know it, for recalcitrant legs it's more like a 12,000 step course to recovery), soul-searching, and prayer, my legs and I are now gloriously on the same page, or in the same pew, if you like. My legs behave, not only on their own, but in concert with each other, with me, and with the world in general. They voluntarily hold doors open for packages-ladened people, they gently kick back soccer balls that have strayed from their playing fields, they happily stand when others need a seat. In short, they are indeed nice legs. I see no reason to hide their niceness from the world when the weather gets hot.
The Horseflies-I Live Where It's Gray
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