I never liked Biology class. Or dissection. Whenever attention was called to a body part, I could suddenly feel it, large and ominous in my body. The liver would announce itself, a five-pound weight in my abdomen. The kidneys would shift around conspicuously. As the teacher outlined each bone in the body, I could feel it: ulna, tibia, coccyx. A lecture about blood circulation? I could feel each tiny cell coursing a million miles an hour through my veins. The veins themselves would seem to pump up like Air Jordans, throbbing painfully in each wrist and elbow crook. I'd fold over with imagined pain as my lab partner sliced through rat skin, carefully extracted each gray, spongy lung. Perhaps it was the realization that we were all just a loosely knit grouping of pieces and parts. Life was suddenly illogical, strange, unlikely. What the heck was I doing, walking around?
The Not-Really Book Club meets each month in Sacramento.