One of those things a certain stripe of middle-aged, middle-class white women like me are attached to - apart from the privilege of our position - is the privilege of our bodies. For those of us not blessed with ill health and a fetish for the attention we are trained that may bring, there is an expectation of wholeness, even as the minor cracks and complaints of advancing age prove to us, really, how minor our physical quibbles really are.
Threaten that, and we wig out.
It's been a long time since I was a solitary spiritual fool, looking at the full moon and taking the Roman implications of my given name too seriously. Still can't help but notice the big, golden thing is hanging out outside the window. It's a good thing the praying for tonight has been farmed out to Mr. X.
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Edited 8/3/2012: Privilege intact. One less lesson of humility to bother to learn. Today.
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