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The historical adventures of Lucy Adams

It was bound to happen. Post a website and publish my e-mail address, and I couldn't help but lure a few crazies out of cyberspace.

I opened an e-mail last week, presumably from a woman (these days, who can tell), who claims to be me.

It announced, I just ran across your website, and thought it was cool that my name is also Lucy Adams! Have a great day.

Whatever! The moment I read it, my index finger snapped to attention, pointed at my right ear, and circled in a counterclockwise motion.

My mama and daddy told me that I'm one-of-a-kind. God made me from a secret recipe. Now that I'm an adult, I realize, despite turbulent adolescent years, how right they were about everything. So how could they be wrong about this?

They couldn't. And to prove it, I Googled myself. There are many other search engines, but Google is mine. When I enter key words, it tenders an infinite quantity of optional realities from which to choose.

I clicked GO.

Holy guacamole, a schizophrenic number of results popped onto my screen. One million, four hundred thirty thousand, to be exact. Frantically, I scrolled, meeting the many mes.

Where to begin? Born in 1785, 1792, 1841, 1888, 1968, 1984, and so forth, I've been born again more times than a backsliding Baptist and lived more lives than an alley cat.

But successes come and go. Nollie Extreme Girls named me one of the top 50 girls who rock. Yes! The Royal Bank of Scotland predicted I would become a millionaire 10 times over by the age of 36. I'm 38. Where's my money?

In a fifth century life, my father had the unfortunate name, Eliphalet Adams. (If born a boy, or I could have ended up today as Count Eliphalet Adams, VI, instead of Lucy Adams the countless.)

Although I hate to brag, I've worked as a circus midget, so tall on talent that I earned enough money to buy a cottage on Martha's Vineyard, where other freak show regulars, like the Clintons, vacation. These days, however, I use my entertainment gifts as a sword dancing, clogging ballerina with a group called The Black Adder.

The me that doesn't squirm at the sight of a loose tooth has a degree in nursing. And the me who lives in a fantasy world gives financial support to the Medieval Academy of America.

I'm an equestrian, a journalist, a high school volleyball player, a skateboard circuit diva, a life coach (ha, ha), a web forum moderator, book author, housemaid, filmographer, actress, kindergarten teacher, artist, human resources director, and environmental scientist.

And, oh, the men I have known. Don't tell my husband, but I married Stuart McMinn on August 26, 2006. Tony Hart, a vagabond who fought on the side of the Union in the War of Northern Aggression, whom I married in 1855, fathered 21 children with me. I wed Johann Phillip Nail on January 18, 1806 and Brad Adams on January 16, 1993. Shortly after marrying Abraham Steele in 1822, I up and married Eben Berry in 1825.

On top of all that, I've even clogged on Rice, which sounds like a rather slippery proposition.

Discovering all of me, or, shall I say, we, I thrilled over my magnificent, adventurous, multiple personalities. I'm even more special than my parents ever said.

So I responded to the e-mail: Dear Lucy Adams, you won't believe the things we've done, the lives we've lived, the history we've made. WE are an amazing woman (presumably). Sincerely, Lucy Adams.

She answered: Whatever.



Web posted on Thursday, May 24, 2007













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