Bruised, and loving it

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

As I lie here on the couch (having walked in 78°F heat, 78% humidity and light drizzle for 25 minutes -- would've been longer but for the drizzle), freshly showered and musing over the idea of hitting the hay early for once, I find myself looking at my right arm. In the past few days, I've carried a large old TV out to the car in an attempt to donate it to Goodwill (the man at the collection area just looked at it and laughed -- finally left it out back for the trash scavengers), cleaned the bedroom, carried ladders and vacuum cleaners up and down stairs, and generally been active about the house.

I also bruise easily -- got that from my mother. A friend once gave me an acupressure treatment on my back, and was horrified the next morning at the deep blue Turner seascape-esque blotches that bloomed overnight on my skin. I had to reassure her that she hadn't been torturing me, it was just the way my skin reacted to pressure. And the way my torso looked after a good fencing session can only be described as "Dalmatian."

So it shouldn't come as a surprise that after the last few days, I have three small but distinct bruises high and inside on my upper right arm from where the frame of the TV dug into the muscle, a smudgy bruise on my outer forearm from banging the ladder against it, and a small pink bruise on my inner forearm from God knows what.

And I like them. This may sound idiotic, but I kinda feel like Xena, Warrior SF Writer when I look at my mottled skin. Yeah, they ache a bit, but they remind me of the work I did to get them, and that's kind of cool.