Yesterday, I experienced a milestone in my life. Part of me called it the beginning of that slow decline into old age, full of aches and bruises and the sniffles (I’m assuming I’ll sniffle a lot as an old woman). The other part of me called it a mark of honor, the sign that I’m on the right track professionally.
I injured myself by reading. I’ll explain.
Just as it was when I was in college, my job sometimes requires that I sit down and read. And yesterday afternoon was just such an occasion. I had been reading for about an hour and a half when Amanda came home. We had to go run an errand, so I closed my book, nudged the cat off my lap, and commenced rising up from the couch.
I’m not sure how it all happened. I know my left leg swung a little too far out and made connection with the edge of the coffee table. I know that it hurt badly enough for me to abandon my pursuit and hold my foot and do the Peter Griffin injury moment.
My foot first became red, then white where it hit the table, and by the time we came back home and ate dinner, it had turned into a purple bruise. A bruise that has made my whole toe sore. A bruise that, sadly, I got by attempting to move from sitting to standing.
At first this bothered me – oh dear God, what fragile and delicate shape must I be in to injure myself by getting up off the couch? I began to have visions of myself as one of those hormone-injected pigs that gets so fat so quickly that its legs can’t support it and it can’t walk to the slaughter.
But then, I thought, no. My body was just looking out for me. My body wants to be reading.
I’m normal! Glory be! My body is just determined to get the job done, to read the book and make the notes and write the article!
And now, thanks to this dumb bruise on my toe that makes walking just painful enough to be annoying, I’ll likely be doing just that: reading. Making notes. Writing.