Battle Scars
So there I am, skiing along. Everyone in our group has made it down the hill ahead of me and they're standing in a clump at the bottom. It's the last run of the day and I'm feeling strong. I'm making like Picabo, swish swish, my Chapsticked lips shimmering in the late afternoon sun. My hams are taught like Seabiscuit's. My form? Well, it's splendid, that's what it is.
And then, out of nowhere comes Flailing Lady, flailing herself very unladylike into the back of my splendid form. And in the time it takes my lips to form the words "You stupid biatch," we're a mass of arms and legs and long, hard slabs of metal-edged fiberglass technologically engineered to do things like "slice" and "carve."
Were we hurt? Well, she was after I punched her in the face*, but I was fine. I'd had the wind knocked out of me and I was a little shaken and rage-crazy, but all the important parts were intact. (Everyone at the bottom of the hill, however, thought I'd busted my femur since it took me ten minutes to get one ski back on due to the fact that I can't click up my bindings because I have the upper-body strength of an six-month-old with no arms.)
Back at the cabin, I'm changing out of my sport garb into my sloth garb when I notice I have a GINORMOUS black bruise on my thigh. It's about three inches long and an inch and a half wide, roughly the length of an insurance card and about the width of, oh, I don't know, a ski? There's a big lump underneath it and a string of smaller bruises running the ten inches down to my knee, where another lump and blue-black bruise are; if you can teach kids about peninsulas using Dave Letterman's hairdo, they can learn all about archipelagos on my pasty white thigh.
When I say this bruise is black, I mean black, like tar or Mel Gibson's soul. When I first looked at it I was understandably grossed out, but also understandably eager to share my injury with our housemates once we were gathered around the dinner table eating lasagna. (Yes, I'm one of those people.) By morning it was purple. The next day, blue. By Wednesday it was about to turn the corner from green to yellow and the lump was finally going down. It was a kaleidoscope of ever-changing hues--only more painful. I've spent hours staring at it. I've spent hours making other people stare at it. And yes, I've even taken its picture. (This is also your first look at my recently sized engagement ring!)
When we went out to dinner with Teddy earlier this week, the first thing I did when I got in his car was hike up my skirt to show him my bruise (calm down; it's not that far up my leg!). I was all prepared to tell him the story of how such grave misfortune befell me, how I played the proud warrior fighting back tears in the face of excruciating torture. But before I could even begin, he pointed to the back of his neck, where there was a two-inch-long cut, swollen like a pink grape and stitched up Frankenstein style. "I got in a bar fight," he said. And with that, my thunder was stolen. How can anything compete with the coolness that is a bar fight? *fizzle*
*C'mon, would I really do that?
Ouch!!!!
I have the same upper body strength. When I fall skiiing, (and I've only been once, mind you) I have to take my skis completely off to get up.
I hope you have some happy stories from your trip too.
Ohh sorry to hear that - I don't ski (tried snowboarding once - not for me really), but whe you said:
"I have the upper-body strength of an six-month-old with no arms"
I just thought - I am the same way!
B