Fascinating Pain
I was at the grocery store Monday night, picking up cat food. My favorite grapes — the little round green ones, available only in early June and early December — are in season, so I pop over to produce to grab a bunch. My new two-inch wedge sandals found the only grape on the floor … my feet flew out from under me … and I slammed face-first onto the produce floor. Fancy Feast cans and jars of roasted red peppers rolled in every direction. I ended with a flourish, skidding about two feet across the floor. Judges gave it a 9.2.
[Sadly, this is not an unusual occurrence in my life; I get in a good face-first body slam two or three times a year. Maybe one of these days I’ll learn to slow down and live up to my middle name.]
Anyway, it’s now Friday. I bruised the bones in my knee and lower leg, so there’s not a lot of puce and green to my skin, but it still hurts like the dickens. Every time I get down on my knees (I am, after all, a good Southern Baptist girl), I'm hit with an intense, sharp pain.
But here’s the cool part. When I touch my knee here:
I feel the pain here:
Neat, huh? Now, most people would have gone to the doctor to make sure there’s no damage to the knee. Well, who wants to be most people? I’m too fascinated by the roving flash of pain to let it go. I spend my days touching the numb spot, flinching yet weirdly enjoying the pain radiating elsewhere. And I keep showing people. I demonstrated it for my boss. My coworkers. Dan. The cats. Anyone who catches me doing it. Because I can’t. Stop. Doing it. Maybe there’s a sect of self-flagellating Southern Baptist monks I can join. One that doesn’t use snakes, of course.
Oh, my middle name? Grace.
Labels: fascinating pain, Grace, great gams, klutz, self-flagellating Southern Baptist monks
11 Comments:
It's all the power in your rings causing you to not. Be able. To stop. Doing it!
I was over at Grant Miller's site and saw some of your comments. So here I am looking around. And now I see posts about REM and lots of other interesting things. Curse you blogger!
that's AMAZING, GRACE!
haha, couldn't resist.
p.s. - just saw that you are a serge gainsbourg fan. how cool are you!
have you heard mick harvey's renditions of serge's songs? he does them in english and they are actually very good.
I bet that was a sight to behold!
Nice lookin' gams, chick.
DALE: Do not mock the baubles. They keep me balanced so that I don't eat carpet more often.
BARISTA BRAT: Love the Serge; he'll be featured on an upcoming Soundtrack of My Life. I've heard some of Mick Harvey's covers. You've impressed me yet again with your brilliance.
MARNI: I'm just sorry I didn't demonstrate it for you at dinner the other night - but you're a mommy, so you would have just slapped my hand away. I hope the cruise is perfect!
Please tell me at least one employee of the grocery store helped you pick up your scattered cans of Fancy Feast and asked if you were okay????
I would never mock anything that might be able to do harm to me in a contact sort of way.
B: Hey, thanks! I hope you're not referring to using them as BEFORE or BANGED-UP photos.
HOLLY: Nope, none of the Publix people helped ... but a couple of housewives did.
DALE: You're a very smart man.
As a good Southern Baptist, your knees toughened from praying, you are an example to all the weak-kneed liberals who can't take even an iota of pain!
I'm a little concerned, however, about the phantom pain you're experiencing. I recommend you think of something else when you touch the bruised spot as I believe this is what our president would recommend. This may work so as to suppress even the phantom pain.
Feel better soon!
Oh, Beth! We ARE so alike! However,I planned to stay out of this then you mentioned no help from Publix. And, hair up, straight!! Silver crew cut on the spot. You should have demanded some attention. A knee injury can last a long time and catch you when least expected. Ask your mom. That makes me so mad considering the image Publix advertises. If George Jenkins was still wtih us, he would have picked you up (literally) in a quick second, DOM that he was! Oh, well, pardon my Irish.
Meanwhile, does the cat really eat roasted red peppers?
MR. SARK: It's uncanny how you think. I think I'll try Dubya's cocktail of antidepressants and booze.
AUNT J: I fall so often, I just don't think about it any more. There were no clerks in the immediate vicinity, so they probably didn't see my moment of Publix glory. And, yes, the cats eat roasted red peppers; they love them with capers and goat cheese - only the best for my furries!
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