[about the author]
i actually like speaking in front of large crowds. freakish,
i work crossword puzzles in ink.
i am the american nigella lawson. or maybe the american eddie
izzard. can't decide, really.
i would be a really good mom, but i'm cool with being a really
i am sometimes more perceptive than i would like to be.
i am fiercely loyal. sometimes, stupidly so.
i never play dumb. never.
i am way too hard on myself.
i am a change agent.
i sometimes cross that fine line between assertive and aggressive.
i am not afraid to tell people that i love them.
i am militantly pro-choice.
i am pro-adoption.
i know a little bit about alot of things.
i typically enjoy the company of men more than women.
i am capable of being really mean and nasty, but i fight it.
i am a lifelong cubs fan. do not laugh.
i have been known to hold a grudge.
i have hips.
i am not my sister.
i am lousy at forgiving myself.
i am an indoor kind of gal.
i am a bargain shopper. to the point of obsession.
i am 32 flavors. and then some.
and i got this one...
when i got home on sunday evening after my weekend getaway to atlanta, i was exhausted. i peeled off my clothes and was preparing to don my newly purchased chococat showercap [ed. note: in an odd turn of events, i just learned that one of my frequently read bloggers also owns a chococat cap. what are the chances?] and pop into the shower to wash the oppression of united airlines off my weary body.
in doing so, i noticed that i had a bruise.
it was quite a nice bruise, actually. it’s about the size of a penny, and almost perfectly round. it’s high on the inside of my right thigh. a beautiful dark, true indigo with a scattering of more vivid violet dots.
if someone asked you to draw a picture of the perfect bruise, this is the bruise that you would draw. not that anyone ever asks you to do that. unless you hang out with some pretty odd people.
anyway, it’s rather spectacular.
and, while i am strangely and utterly enamored with my perfect bruise, the thing is, i have no idea how it got there.
i pondered this for quite a while as the steam filled up my bathroom, and came up with absolutely no recollection of any activity which could have resulted in such a fabulous bruise.
suddenly, i realized that i had a golden opportunity before me. since i don’t know how i actually got the bruise, i could just invent some really amazing story to explain it. i thought about this guy who had some sort of dire need to impress me several years back. i’m pretty sure he was trying to score with me, but i can be a bit clueless on that front sometimes [see: yesterday’s story]. at any rate, every time i ran into him he would regale me with stories of how he got various scars. they were always worldly and exotic and amazing stories.
“and this one i got when i ran with the bulls in pamploma.”
“actually, it’s pamplona.”
“whatever, check it out. nice, huh?”
“and this one i got when a drug-dealing client i was representing pulled a knife on me and the bailiff didn’t act quite quickly enough.”
i was always impressed with the effort he put forth. and i was truly flattered that he was so interested in me that he would go to such lengths to try and dazzle me. but, dazzled or no, i wasn’t going out with him.
i don’t have many scars myself. when i was younger i used to do some rather stupid and dangerous things in an effort get scars so i would have cool stories to tell. however, i seem to have been jinxed in that regard. you’d think with all the beating my sister and i used to do on one another, i’d be loaded with ‘em. but you’d be wrong.
the best scar i have is on my thumb. i was washing a glass and stuck my hand down inside of it [yes, my mother told me not to do that. i’m a rebel, what can i say?] and it broke. but that’s not exactly a mesmerizing story, now is it?
so, i thought maybe this perfect bruise offered a unique opportunity to create some sort of personal mythology. some wacky, nutty mysterioso story. i mean, come on: it’s a great color. it’s perfectly round. and, perhaps best of all: it’s on the inside of my thigh! the upper inside of my thigh. you know what i’m sayin’. the possibilities are endless! it’s a gift from the gods!
then i realized:
1. this is a bruise. this is not a scar. this will go away and, when it does, my story – even if it is spectacular now – will suck. because, really, how impressive is a story that starts out, “i used to have the most amazing bruise right here!” not so much. i mean, i guess i could photograph the bruise in its current state and then use that as some sort of visual aid, but i just don’t think that would pack the same narrative punch.
2. no one is seeing the inside of my thigh these days anyway, so what the hell difference does it make?
what a waste of a kick-ass bruise.
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