(hardly) noticeable

mag3

A bruise is a reminder that the play was a little rough, and female genetics are proof that God endowed women with the power of remembrance. A couple of years back I was building a rock wall (NOT A METAPHOR) and I smote my hand (NOT A METAPHOR). It was so smitten, in fact, that the nail of my left index finger fell completely off. I, of course, thought that once the nail came off, the pain would stop, but apparently the nerve endings are in the skin and not the nail, and if you so much as looked at the knob of pinky, uncovered flesh I would likely stick it into whatever foodstuffs you were eating, because people don't like it when you stick your finger in their meal (LESSON LEARNED), but they like it even less when said digit resembles a finger puppet with its head burned off (METAPHOR). DON'T LOOK AT MY GROTESQUENESS PEOPLE.

But the point is that in spite of having my finger smashed by an object large enough to bring extinction to 90% of Cretaceous period life, the skin only bruised for a couple of days. That's the benefit of being a man. You're tough. Masculine. You don’t bruise. The benefit of being a man is that you're manly.

So, anyhoo, the other day Alex comes up from behind while I'm congratulating myself for knowing that the answer to 27 Down is TAFFETA and tickles me in the side, and I DON'T LIKE TO BE TICKLED, so I screamed and jumped several feet in the air, dropping one of my PETA sandals in the process, which caused me to spill my herbal tea and my fountain pen flew through the air AND BARELY BRUSHED HER ARM.

Of course, within the hour she had somehow developed a Frisbee sized bruise which subsequently adhered to the following palette schedule:

Monday: Entire Frisbee pinkish-red
Tuesday: Entire Frisbee enters brown stage
Wednesday: Entire Frisbee dark brown
Thursday: Center of Frisbee yellow, outside brown.
Friday: Entire Frisbee somehow now purple
Saturday: Return to DAY TWO AND REPEAT PATTERN FOR FOUR MONTHS

This is how I know memories are directly related to bruises, and how come she remembers so much better than me the tiny inconsequentialities, whereas I only recall boulders smashed into my head, and tend to forget all the niceness and love and beauty in my life, like when my parents took such an interest in the Perseids for my sake alone, and drove me into the country even though they had to work the next day and even though I fell asleep on the lawn chair and missed the whole thing and carried me back to the car and told me the next day how proud they were I was interested in science. And how I remembered this last night watching my parents light firecrackers for my kids, setting the fuse and running, screeching, laughing hand-in-hand as the lights lit up the sky like so many memories that left no noticeable marks.

Well, hardly a mark.