At some point everything comes out on my skin.
I've never put much store in secrecy. I have all kinds of secret odes to truth hidden on my laptop hard drive. How's that for irony? Not hidden really, I don't protect anything with passwords or screen protectors. I just haven't shown it to you yet. Ask me something and I'll tell you more than you were probably looking for. Touch me and I'll melt or shy away. I can't hide anything really.
I feel good in my skin right now and it shows and I don't just mean I'm looking hot today. My skin is brown from leading bike tours in the Columbia Gorge and bike tours in downtown Portland and riding my bike to and from work everyday. Some days I ride 20 or 25 miles. Some days I ride more.
My legs are hard from running up and down the paths to waterfalls and riding my bike up hills and, one night starting at sundown, riding my bike all the way from Chanticleer Point to Cascade Locks, I'll bet you haven't ever ridden your bike past some of the most beautiful scenery in the world in the all-the-way dark, down roads so familiar because I drive and bike them sometimes three days a week, down roads so unfamiliar I slow down even on the gentle bends, worried I'm about to double back in the pitch. I ride in high-heeled sandals and a swingy mini skirt on a road bike and every one of the 25-maybe miles feels so good in my body. The summer wind on my legs and bare arms.
We bike tour guides build a fire outside a brewery in Cascade Locks where I have been served Scotch-malted beer by the brewer out of its fermenting tank and we talk about mountains throwing off their brimstone and I sit on a bench feeling the heat of the fire on my skin and we talk about sex and drugs and rock and roll and when we ride our bikes like children to the island at 4:30 a.m. to watch the sun rise over the god-built Bridge of the Gods I feel the cool morning air on my neck and the sand on my thighs.
Some mornings I wake up and want to kiss everything and some middles-of-the-night I spend insomniac hours thinking only of the taste of skin on my lips and if you were me what would be stopping you from just opening your mouth and tasting the warmth and salt and brown and smooth? Nothing of course but some days a want of skin.
I want to tell more secrets, want to run up more mountains and feel every manner of fern and bramble on my arms, want to taste thimbleberries and wood sorrel and kisses, want to wish on Druid's plants for the feelings on my skin every day and more children and childishness in my life and unicorns and to turn my home's life dial all the way up to joy, joy, joy! Look at me in my skin, comfortable but not yet content, prickling with fear or sadness some days but still pumping lungs like pedals just to feel everything, cold/heat/sweat/fingernails/bike chains/tongues/tears, I've said too much again haven't I, can you blame me? I'm at the pinnacle of forty and I have to stay wide open because there is so much in this world left to feel.