Cassandra Barney

If four years ago I were to describe myself, I'd say something about being little but fierce. I thought I had superpowers and I ruled the universe. I believed I could plow over any obstacle. Since then I have learned some valuable lessons. I have plowed over some pretty big obstacles but I stand today, a bit smaller in my own shoes. That's literal actually, my feet have gone down a whole size. But anyway, let me share a couple of humbling experiences. First, why I have to reconsider thinking of myself as little but fierce. Earlier this past summer my friend Anne asked me to come to a boxing class and give it a try. I'd been lifting for about two years prior and felt ready but I wasn't sure that LA Boxing was ready for me, Cassandra Barney, Little Ball of Hate. After the warm up that tested my stamina, our first drill was to take turns with a partner, kicking into a mat, shoulder height. I knew I could kick hard and high so I got pumped, ready to show-off and gave it all I had. My legs turned red and ended up black and blue from hitting that mat so hard. I was doing alright. Then it was Anne's turn. Ann stood in front of me, gave the mat one kick and no lie, I flew into the air and back about three feet. I couldn't believe it. She proceeded to throw me across the entire length of the gym. After that, I didn't feel especially tough. I still lift because it feels good and I still like boxing but I'm not considering it as a profession. I took my little ego, folded it up and put it in my pocket.

It was embarrassing to almost pass out as I left the oral surgeons office after having an impacted wisdom tooth yanked out of my jawbone, but it's another to loose it over a tiny innocent freckle.
My daughter and I went to the dermatologist today for a routine mole/skin cancer checkup. Okay, in all honesty, the first thing I said to the doctor was, "look at me, what can we do about my prematurely aging skin?" to which he replied, "quit drinking caffeine and stay out of the sun." I wasn't very happy with that answer and let him proceed with my skin check. He stopped at the one super cute freckle on my inner thigh and said...this one has to go. "Later?" I asked but he said right now...today. So, as I sat there in my heels, sweater and a paper cover (see above picture taken on my phone by my daughter who thought it was pretty funny and sent it to several of my friends during my trauma) I worked myself into a quiet fit of fear. That little freckle that I loved, that was a mark that gave me identity was being removed...with sharp tools. I was wondering if I could ask for it back to send it to someone but then I pictured it and it's wasn't pretty. Then I was getting shots and hearing scraping and by the time I could smell my skin being cauterized, I was having tunnel vision and had turned grey. IT WAS A TEENY TINY MOLE FOR HEAVEN SAKES. I am such a wuss. That kind of behaviour should not be seen by one's children and my daughter just watched me totally fall apart over a mole? DUH!

That little ego that I had put in my pocket has now been through the wash a couple of times and isn't very recognizable. So these days I wouldn't describe myself as little and fierce but tiny and tender...or diminutive and dorky? The meek shall inherit the earth? Maybe I'll have to make that my new mantra.