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.