Nuts.

At Christmas, I remember an ornate silver nutcracker nestled among almonds and walnuts and pecans and macadamia nuts, whole and round in their ridged skins. 

With the entire assortment at my fingertips, I chose carefully.

As an adult, I am no different. Christmas nuts are the same as any-other-day-of-the-year nuts, and if one happened to enter my mouth it was a rare and special nut, indeed. Extolling the health benefits, my nutritionist has advised that I should be eating a handful of nuts every day. “Nuts in moderation” and I diligently follow her direction, chafing at “moderation” and staring wistfully at the bag of nuts on the counter wishing for more.

Thinking back on the bowl of Christmas nuts, I realize my reluctance was borne more of fear than distaste. The silver nutcracker was heavy, the violence of the shell cracking unpredictable. And by the time the skin was revealed beneath the shell, in the end I was almost always hurt while the nut remained whole and apart from where I expected it to be.

I’ve never found pleasure in cracking nuts.

And then I had to grow a pair.

I had to stand up and be the woman and the man. The mom and the dad. The breadwinner, the bill payer, the bike fixer, the grocery getter and the skate lacer. The laundry doer, the activity coordinator, the vacation planner, the party hoster, the present getter, the errand runner and the TV fixer. The yard worker, the pipe fixer, the bug zapper and the tire inflator. The issue fixer, the band aid wrapper and the cheerleader.

My nuts are cracked on a daily basis.

Staring at the 20-foot long penis etched in chalk on my sidewalk I wonder.

Who's got the cojones to take me on?