Just yesterday, after months of trying to schedule time between her expeditions, I walked up the steps to her wide-open townhouse door, wondering the same things I always do when I’m about to meet a superhero: What is it that separates her from normal people? And is she nice?
I called hello as I walked in, and I heard her coming up the stairs. Watery alpine light poured in through the tall wraparound windows, and casual disorder—photo equipment on the counter, kids’ art hanging on the fridge, a dinosaur with its arm unattached on the floor—made me feel instantly at home. She had sent me a text while I was en route from Montrose: “I’m a little behind on my housekeeping.” Normal enough.
She came around the corner to give me a huge hug, and I posted up at the bar while she did some dishes left over from the morning. She’s rangy and ageless, with warm eyes and rich olive skin. Then there are her veins. They’re like raging rivers running down her biceps, branching into tributaries that course through her forearms. Not so normal.