Looking Up

I remember my first experience with a baby hedgehog. My friend deposited a trembling, warm little creature into my hands, tiny feet pressing into my palms. I couldn’t stop smiling. I just stared down at the quivering mess of coffee-colored velcro—er, spiny fur—while the owner whispered to it and gently tried to smooth down its spines. Finally, a teeny pink nose peeked out. Hedgies had faces!? Sniffing out the excitement of this new skin-colored bean chair, it forgot itself and even let out a little grunt of happiness. And then I forgot myself and said something back; something generic like “It’s so cute,” which apparently sounded deadly enough to put up the sheath of terror. No more privileged glimpses of the real hedgehog tucked inside that prickly shell. All too often, I find myself in hedgehog mode. Not necessarily because of the way I waddle to class on a -25 F morning or because of the static electricity hitchhiking via my hair. Rather, it’s because I want to hide. Life is f...