Too soft

I am softer now than I was then, when I was a kid. Back then I was tough and leathery. Back then I jutted out my chin, refused to cry at sad movies, ran through the rock quarry barefoot.
Though I remember my jaw aching at times to keep tears back, I also remember callouses during the summer that could carry me across campfire coals.

Now I'm too soft. Now my feet ache after tennis, develop strain on the ball. My skin has developed an allergy to adhesives. My quirk of stripping stickers, the margins of self-adhesive stamp pages, prescription labels on medicine bottles, and applying them to the back of my left hand until there are none left to remove, makes me itch. The rubber edges of the world's best strapless bra have begun to raise welts on my back. The marks from last week had not yet disappeared when I needed to wear the bra again (Dumb, I know, but like I said, it's the world's best minus this one problem), and halfway through the day, the searing pain began again. Last time I got a tattoo, the burn marks from the medical tape the tattooist used to secure on my bandage took longer to heal than the tattoo itself.

And the first time I saw the preview for "North Country," I sobbed. Sobbed. At a preview.