I may be fat but I’m not an invalid. I walk-jog two-point-three miles six days a week and ride a stationary recumbent bike for forty-five minutes three days a week. I have a hormone imbalance. It runs in my family. My sister, mother, aunts, various nieces, and daughter are all afflicted with this miserable little chemical deficiency that causes incurable cravings for chocolate brownies and fried chicken. I noticed my husband may be inheriting this disease either through osmosis or my cooking.
When I head out on my two-point-three mile excursion, I generally hitch up my two dogs. Once leashed and I sputter the magic words “Let’s Go”, they yank me through the front door and the first three-quarters of a mile is mostly an Iditarod marathon sans the sled. I’m convinced that Rex was a sled-dog in his most recent past life and Gus a Buddhist monk.
The middle portion of our journey fares better with energy levels somewhat balanced. This is the time we smell the flowers and get our pooping out of the way. (The dogs, not me.) It’s this last third of the trip, when the dogs have become bored and are ready to track dirty paw prints up on the sofa and dream of chasing bunnies and I’m conjuring up tonight’s supper, that got us into trouble four nights ago.
I’m contemplating shredded veggies over Jasmine rice with a nice little Asian Vinegarette topped with a soft-poached egg when sled-dog decides to relocate from right to left. Probably wanting to sniff Buddha dog’s butt or some other repulsive mung on the sidewalk, I was unprepared and caught my foot in the leash.
Imagine, if you will, the following scenario in slow motion, although the entire incident took mere nano-seconds.
Comprehending where I was going to land, I managed to twist to the right so that I could avoid squishing my poor little sled dog. In doing so I landed on the edge of the sidewalk resulting in a glancing blow to my glasses, the corner of which poked the smallest pin-prick just under my eye brow. I then slid effortlessly into a goo-filled gutter mired in the remnant sludge from what I am presuming was a hazmat-level oil spill and repugnant decomposing organic material, all of which clung sickly to my entire right side. With the briefest hesitation, I chased away the thought that I should have squashed the dog, and took a damage assessment.
Move fingers, toes, arms, legs, head. Good. Nothing broken. I then set up on the curb so as not to be noticed lying in the gutter and possibly mistaken for one of the shopping cart people that frequent the downtown area. So far, so good. I didn’t feel woozy and my sight wasn’t blurred. It’s all good, it’s all good.
I stood up, my pride the only thing left in the gutter, and sauntered off as though nothing had occurred out of the ordinary. Then I noticed the small stream of blood running down my face. Damn! A stitches-required gash? A quick glance in a car door mirror showed there was only a small puncture wound near my eyebrow.
“Shit”, I thought. “That’s going to color up nicely”.
What an understatement.
I was able to hobble home with a barely noticeable limp and after a quick clean up and change of clothes, I was able to continue with my normal routine.
Zip forward to the next morning.
I woke up thinking I may still be laying in the gutter. My leg was so stiff I couldn’t roll over without wincing in pain, but I managed to crawl out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and screamed.
“Holy $%#K!” The closest I'd seen to the shade of purple above my eye, I had only seen on inedible vegetables. “Wowza!”
It was one of those black eyes that would send small children into hiding and cause old ladies to “tssk tssk” towards my poor dear husband. No amount of makeup was going to cover this up, not against my near-albino paleness. My only alternative would be to find a similar shade of eggplant eye-shadow and black lipstick, but going Goth at fifty-two would more likely land me under psychological evaluation and all my assets under the protective custody of my husband.
Which unfortunately means staying home.
I had cabin fever in less than three minutes.
Truth be told, I am a homebody. But tell me I can’t go anywhere, and I’m antsy already. There is only so much internet I can stand, only so many games of solitaire, only so many pages I can read before I start looking around and consider doing the unthinkable – cleaning dust out of the corners, cobwebs off the ceiling, and pulling rabbits out from under the bed. However, due to the twisted knee I could do none of those things. So here I am, back stumbling around on the Internet looking for anything interesting, book earmarked on page twenty-six at my elbow, a worn-out deck of cards within easy reach.