Better Places

I sometimes wish that I was as athetic as her.
But I have two left feet, slow reflexes, and hands that stay firmly at my sides in protest against anything risky.
She runs gym class.
She acts like it's a second skin for her, walking around like she knows exactly what she's doing.
She doesn't blush, or cringe.
Or stay planted in one spot, too paralyzed to take a risk.
She tells people how she feels.
What she thinks.
What your place is.
And I hate her for that.
But then I think about who I'd like to be in this world, and who went against all odds and the accepted mold of society ...Green Day, The Grateful Dead, Lady Gaga, to name a few... and then I can't help but smile.
She doesn't have a funky haircut.
Or sarcasm.
Or enough will not to let jealousy taint her voice.
She can't write.
Or sing along to punk rock.
Or quote Led Zeppelin.
Or think as deeply as me.
I am not Sydney Carton (from A Tale of Two Cities).
No.
I'm someone in my own shoes, proudly wearing them on my feet.
And flaunting them.
I can't help but look at her head-on, knowing something that nobody else does.