So, new space. Spur of the moment decision when blogger wouldn’t let me write about my bruises.
Yes! Bruises! Here is how it happened.
Sophie and I went for a bike ride. The last time I was on a bike was, oh, approximately ten years ago. It involved a French host sister and being freaked out by traffic and a blow-out fight about how I didn’t smile enough. The last bike I owned was built for a seven year old.
Riding a bike after ten years? Is not as easy to remember as riding a bike. People tell you that about all kinds of things, that it’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget. Pay attention, I’m hear to tell you otherwise. It’s hard. It involves several embarrassing minutes in the street outside your house, trying to swing your leg over and keep your foot on the pedal and get some balance and not hit that car that just turned the corner. And having a three year old ask why you don’t just ride it.
And then you finally get going and you’re coasting and taking the corners and navigating mild traffic and not wobbling too much and trying just to make it to the bike trail, and you’re going through your first tight spot and you panic and are suddenly on the ground under the bike. But you’re fine, fine! Just a little scratch on your arm, and starting is much easier this time, only two tries, and lalala look at me bike almost six miles! This is fun! Except for the death grip on the handlebars and the dust outside the cement factory. And you make it home, walking your bikes up the hill because really, let’s not take this exercise thing too far.
Your reward is a most perfect latte at the Ugly Mug, where you sit all cozy for a while. And then you stand up and think, oh, I am a bit creaky here in my hips, that’s interesting. And then you start noticing how you don’t really have much of a scrape on your arm, but more of a series of small bruises along your forarm (one of them conveniently located right where it rests on the edge of your laptop). And you say, I think I bruised my hip, actually. And you go take a look at it in bathroom mirror and sweet mother of God.
You are so disgusted that you don’t ever want to see it again. But you can’t stop checking on it whenever you go to the bathroom. You even engage in some hysterical laughter at work (a combination of being at work too long, perhaps too much caffeine, a touch of hunger, and the color of your bruise). Arnica helps. But, this bruise will be with you faithfully for quite a while.
NB. My July archives are still back at the old garish.