In high school, I began to joke about getting a black eye. I would talk about what I would say about what happened, where I would go to show it off, etc. I became playfully obsessed. When I went skiing and fell neck-first on my ski pole, I secretly wished it had been my eye. Case in point? When my friend Shane “pretended” like he was going to hit me in the face with a light saber and then actually just really hit me in the face with a light saber, the first words out of my mouth were, “DO I HAVE A BLACK EYE?”
Then my job at a domestic violence happened and I came face to face with the realization that many people who sport black eyes did not want them there in the first place (like women and children) and I probably shouldn’t joke about it. So, I stopped.
But my subconscious picked up the torch. Maybe it’s that my eyesight is failing or my ability to focus is diminished. Maybe it’s a sleeping sensory integration disorder that is awakened by age. But, guys, I injure myself almost daily. Last year, while talking to our Executive Director, I walked straight into a wall. I don’t mean my shoulder hit a wall; I mean I walked, nose first, into a wall. I’ve had the wind whip the car door out of my hand directly into my forehead. I’ve stood up and hit the back of my head on an open cabinet more times than I can count (Once, I did it so hard I thought I might actually pass out. This did not, however, cure me from my bad habit of leaving every cabinet door open ever.) When I stand up at tables, I routinely impale my thigh or knees on the corners of them because I misjudge the distance. Alex often grills me about where my bruises came from.
“Where did this come from?”
“Coffee table. Getting up for more hummus.”
“Bedside table. 2:00am. No light and I needed to go.”
Cut to this morning: I thought that I might try to combat some of these holiday pounds by doing some cardio before work. Last year, I got “Just Dance 3” for Christmas and it’s common for me to do the same 6 songs over and over. I’m very good at them. I should also note that I always dance with two remotes because, well, Just Dance 4 heavily favors your right arm and I don’t want my 30 minutes of dancing every three weeks to make me lopsided.
I don’t know what propelled me to try something different, but I opted for a sexy latin song. I should have known something bad would happen when the song started:
Do you see her hips? Do you see her arms? That’s what I was trying to do to my pasty white freckled body.
Well, my body revolted. At one of the arm swinging sections, I lost all sense of coordination and I punched myself in the eye with the Wii remote…hard. I was kind of stunned for a second. Gracie just stood there and watched me (she thinks I’m a total idiot) and the video game kept on going, taunting me by saying that I wasn’t “perfect”, like it hadn’t just made me hit myself in the face. I think I made a humble try to keep going, but I realized something wasn’t right with my face. This is what I saw in the mirror…
Then I started this hysterical crying/laughing. I tried to called and tell Alex how funny this was, but he couldn’t understand me so I really just scared the bejesus out of him. I decided that I had done enough for the day so I took a bath and tried to clean my wound as best I can. Everybody at work thought I was cool, so…I guess I still win. It’s definitely swollen, but I don’t think it will turn into a black eye. Aw, shucks.
You know, this self-inflicted pain is the kind of video game violence that goes unspoken. I think I’m going to start a Moms Action Group. We’ll call ourselves, “Moms Against Video Gamers Hitting Themselves in the Face”.
Is it weird that when things like this happen to me now, my initial (or at least my second) reaction is, “YES! Cool story!”? I guess blogging has become like an organic mode of therapy for me now. My pain for someone else’s pleasure reading seems like a nice trade-off to me.
This is my Christmas gift to you, folks!