Thursday, March 25, 2004

Painting Everything in Black and Blue

I'm a strange kid. I get the weirdest bruises. Today I have one on the top of my hand. Not the top of the hand that I completely schwacked directly into someone's sideview mirror. Oh, no, that hand remained unmarred. The other hand. The one I don't remember doing anything to, ever.

Last week I was trying on skirts for the next day and turned around to find an amazingly large bruise on the back of my leg above my knee. Ok, longer skirt it is. It was quite purple. And blue. And did I mention it was large? How did it get there? How am I supposed to know?

And the bruise I got on my thigh above my left knee. Don't really recall how that got there either.

The funny thing is that I can run into something and expect a bruise, but never get one. Then one day I'll look down at the inside of my forearm (how the heck do you get a bruise on the inside of your forearm??? happens to me all the time) and there's a little brownish/purple dot to call my own.

I think they're on a delayed reaction. So, if I get a bruise right away, then I know it must be really bad. Otherwise, they don't appear for days (a week?) later and by then I've forgotten the cause.

Case in point: My cousin and I are the same age. For our high school graduation presents, we got to go out to visit my aunt in California. The week before, at the end of my cousin's graduation, I tried to descend the bleachers instead of the nice, tractioned stairs and ended up, well, *ahem* losing my footing, if you will. Slippery little things they were. There I was trying to be all cool in my long (thankfully), flowing dress and heals, and I slipped on one of the risers half way up and rolled sideways down the rest, stopping only at the one right before the gym floor-- where an elderly gentleman so graciously helped me to my feet while the hot upperclassmen gawked laughed above me. (note: this also qualifies as one of my most embarrassing moments)

The point of the story is this: my shins didn't bruise. They hurt like heck, though not as much as my fragile 18-year-old ego, but they didn't bruise. Or rather, they didn't bruise until a week later when, after hours of rollerblading on the Long Beach Boardwalk, I traded my blades back for my flip flops, only to find that the pressure from the blade-boot had brought out the bruises in a wonderfully ribbed gym-sock-pattern all across my shins. (note: this may have qualified for its own embarrassing moment, however, it is clearly acknowledgeable as an extension of the first)

I mean, seriously. What's with the bruises? I think my roommates are coming in and beating me up in my sleep-- well, if I was able to fall asleep properly, that is. No wonder I have nightmares!