Red Badge of Clumsiness

I don't want to do this, I thought to myself. It's hot. I'm tired. I don't want to run. I was pouting. Suddenly, I was flying and then hydroplaning across the pavement on my hands and knees, only there was no water, just skin, and soon not much of that. SHIT. I yelled it. It made me feel better. I slowly pulled myself up, glanced at my bleeding knees and brushed the flap of skin off my palms... and continued running, of course.

A car pulled up. "Are you ok? Do you need help?" Asked a mother and her daughter. "No," I smiled. I'm fine. Thanks." I kept running.

Soon I could feel the blood making its way down my leg. Hmmm. Maybe I can cut this short after all, I thought. I was in pain, but I also felt really good. I was five years old when scabs were badges of courage - things to be picked at and admired.

I'm tough. Once I was bitten by a dog while selling Girl Scout cookies (I was on the other side of the street, avoiding the evil dog house). I walked home along the dusty gravel road and poured hydrogen peroxide on my wound while biting a sock. By the time Dad came home, I was clean and bandaged. Not that it stopped him from reporting the dog to the authorities. The next day I was pulled out of my fourth grade classroom, all mysterious-like, by a man and woman in brown uniforms and taken to the bathroom where these two complete strangers asked me to pull down my pants for them. I did. But that's another story.

This time I did not have hydrogen peroxide, but I did have a new tube of Neosporin. I have a love affair with Neosporin. We take vacations together.

I showed my wounds to everyone at work, but Julia, the Admin. Assistant, had done something similar, only her wounds were much worse. Even the ER doctor grimaced when he looked at her leg.

She got all the attention.