If I could trust my body to cooperate, I would be going to Washington to insist–once again, and I can’t believe that this is necessary once again–that women’s bodies are our own business, that women’s rights are human rights, that I count and you count and my daughter counts and my granddaughter, my grandson, my great-granddaughter count and your daughters and sons and and and and…

Part of me feels that since my body is a ruin anyway I have nothing to lose by sacrificing it by taking it to the streets. “It would be worth it,” I tell myself. Then reason takes over and I remember these things:

• Two days ago it took me an hour and a half to get ready for an event I was leading at the university–an event that was taking place inside, in a room with carpeting and chairs to sit in and a podium I could lean on if I needed to.
• That afternoon I wept with relief when I got back into my car after a trip through the grocery store.
• The only way I could make dinner that evening was in stages: prep the chicken and put it in the oven to roast then sit for a while before making garlic bread (someone else can handle the vegetables, or not).
• Yesterday morning was spent “recovering” from the day before: one event, one trip to the grocery store, one meal prepared = recovery time.

Obviously, this body is not taking this mind to any marches any time soon.

But look,  I am here. And as I rest on my bed or my couch because my body insists, I am calling my senators and senators from other states. I am calling the members of Congress. “Hands off ACA!” I say. “Protect our country. Protect our children. Protect our bodies. Protect our rights. Fight this,” I say. “I am here and I am watching,” I say.

Elizabeth Hilts is the author of “Every Freaking! Day with Rachell Ray” and “Getting In Touch with Your Inner Bitch.” It seems to her that being an extremist for love is the only reasonable response to recent political events in the U.S.