I can't ride a bicycle.
I can't swim.
Just two of the many things thta made my childhood less than the candy coated saccharin sweet of Disney productions and the suburban sit com life.
If ever someone needed rescue from drowning, I was automatically exempt from more than the flailing of arms and three digit emergency dialing. But I did know the hows of CPR. I did know how to attend wounds and breaks.
It's surprising how handy this information is under the age of twelve.
Rarely do bicycles have much to do with rescue.efforts or day to day adult living, or so it seems, or so did I expect.
One day, when I had the time and privacy, I would teach myself and learn alone, to make my embarassments in the safety of isolation.
Olypmic hopefuls and seasoned lifeguards have tried and failed, stupefied at my inability to be taught.
"She's doing everything right. I don't get it."
Where my body fat seeks to congregate leaves me floating ass up, trapped with the fear of watery suffocation.
Instead I bathe as often as possible, lying in my shallow coffin of fragrant bathwater, deaf to all but the rush of the faucet and the thunder of pipes.