It hurts, damn it!
Pain and I are not friends. I neither court nor seek it. For example, I am not a runner, though I used to play at being one. But running never felt good. That "runner's high" so bandied about by others? Never knew it, never met it, never even caught a glimpse of it. After 5 years of running 4 to 5 days a week, the best I could say of the experience was "I'm so glad it's over."
Even my discomfort tolerance is low. I was the kid who whined incessantly on our cross country ski weekends: Are we done yet? How much farther? I've got blisters on my feet. I need a drink. And that whole old husbands tale about women having amnesia regarding the pain of childbirth? Ha, I remember pretty clearly how hard both of my labors were! I point all this out lest someone accuse me of being a masochist because, these past few days, I seem incapable of not injuring myself.
Incident #1. The One Where I Cut My Finger With The Electric Hedge Trimmers.
If you drive by our house, you can see exactly where I stopped cutting my bushes and started cutting my finger. I was two thirds of the way through the job, just starting on the last and biggest of the bushes in front of our house. Careful was my middle name throughout this process, as I didn't want to cut the extension cord yet again and so have to practice my splicing technique.
In fact, I was just congratulating myself on having successfully avoided this operation when I absentmindedly reached down to the base of the trimmer. While it was on. It became apparent within moments that I would not be able to finish trimming the bush, as I was too busy swearing while decorating the front porch with avant-garde red splotchies. 6 stitches and a few days later, my right index finger is back in business.
Incident #2. The One Where I Apparently Ripped A Toenail Off.
Not much to tell about this because I don't know what happened. Yesterday, I noticed more of those avant-garde red splotchies on my kitchen tile. Upon further investigation, I determined that I was in pain and had only 9 toenails left. No further clues how or where or why this occured.
Incident #3. The One Where I Fell While Roller Skiing.
Falling happens. It really is inevitable. You are, say, 5'7" from the ground. At some point you are going to meet the ground in rather quick and involuntary fashion, traversing that 5'7" in short order. Some of us are destined to traverse said (or even greater) distances on a regular basis. Rocks happen. Cracks happen. The Grand Canyon of Oak Park happens. And you fall.
Some of us who exercise on roller skis, traipsing down alleys and city streets find that there is no soft way to traverse this inevitable vertical distance. Me, for instance.Try as I might, there is no good way to fall down that does not involve road rash, gravel in your skin, pain, and more of that avant-garde red splotchy stuff.
This morning, while skiing in my alley, I traveled that very 5'7" vertical distance. And, yes, acquired all of the aforementioned accoutrements of such travel.
Today, Jan and Tehra respectfully requested unless I DO enjoy pain, I should spend the rest of my day applying neosporin, taking a nap and avoiding the use of power tools until further notice.
I'm off to the couch. :-)