I sent myself to the ER.
Wait. Let me just paint the picture.
I was sick in bed last Sunday. On Mother's Day. Sick in bed as in: every single bone in my body ached, I alternated between fever and chills, my throat was so sore I could barely drink water. I was still sore from a cortisone injection in the joint of a toe. Still sore from a hip injury also related to running. In short, Mother's Day was really a mother of a day. Instead of enjoying a relaxing day with my kids, a bison
trampled over my body.
On Tuesday morning, still completely under the weather, I decided to treat myself to a massage. You know, to rid my being of the nastiness that has been causing it pain over the past few weeks. The massage was excellent. My throat wasn't sore. My sinuses decided to start draining, an awesome thing when you've been stuffed up for days.
I walked out to my car. I opened the door. It smacked me in the face.
I saw lots of technicolor stars. After my celestial show faded and I had stopped mentally chastising myself for moving so fast while being in a sick funk, I decided I should look in the mirror to see the welt I was certain I'd created. Instead, thick pools of blood were pouring from above my left eyebrow.
Holy. High. Hell.
I covered it up with the only thing I could find...one of Q's socks that he tossed aside during a ride. And I'm going to admit right here that I sobbed. One big heaving, exhausted sob. Because hello, WHAT DOES THE UNIVERSE HAVE AGAINST ME?
I called the hubs, who was only a few blocks away, to help me out. And within 10 minutes, I had gone from complete spa bliss to the chaos of triage and ice packs and painful wound irrigation and discussions of sutures versus skin glue and facial scars.
Also? I had to explain to five different people how I smacked my own face with a car door AFTER I HAD A DEEP TISSUE MASSAGE.
You're laughing. Because you know what? It makes me laugh too. It makes me shake my head, roll my eyes and wonder: How many shades of dumb can I be sometimes? Don't answer that.
Here's the thing. It made me realize that I'd wandered away from a path I was trying to follow. Must. slow. down.
Here's the other thing. I will have a reminder of that wandering way for a lifetime.
It's called "The Scar."
I have to keep my face and that nice 1-inch long cut out of the sun for a year to keep that scar from getting worse. Which means I get to shop for fun, funkadelic, sassy AND sporty hats.
And I am kind of excited about this development.
I have a solid collection of baseball and newsboy caps. A beachy-cowboy hat. A fedora for evening wear. I also paid a visit to Target for frugal hat cuteness.
But hats get gross when you have to wear them every single day, even with a solid rotation.
So, I'm keeping my eyes peeled for new hats. Ideas? Please share!
