I don’t even think we had rubber boots on at the time. My ripped jeans were soaked right up passed the knees. Plaid shirts wrapped around our waists and clipped in our centre parted hair were plastic little girl barrettes. It was 1993. Sarah and I were 13 years old, jumping into puddles on a warm spring day. Hockey moms drove by and glared at us with a look that scoffed, ‘ugh, teenagers.’ But we didn’t give a flying fart what anyone thought. We were best friends (Best Friends Forever!) splashing in the last days of childhood.
Memoir of a Painted Woman I have done a lot of brave things in my life: I’ve publicly embarrassed myself reading my bad teenage poetry to thousands of people, I’ve traveled to countries where I did not speak the language, I’ve even spun fire (aka poi) but what I did last