My body has become a punching bag of late. It never used to be this way. I have never felt clumsy or unco-ordinated.
In high school and college I was a varsity cheerleader, an activity I survived without injury. I participated in an amateur dance troupe, again without injury. My husband Charley and I skied the icy mountains of New England's Killington and Mad River Glen with no ill effects except tired muscles. Emboldened, we skied St. Anton, Austria, and despite windmill-like tumbles down a trail one day, we emerged unscathed.
Yet my forearms are now a patchwork of purple bruises, my legs a network of scars. Within the past year, I tripped on my own sneaker during a tennis match and rolled across the clay. Wiping myself off, I hid my embarassment by examining my left knee, where blood bubbled over the embedded clay granules. The scar healed in a gray half-dollar.
My right leg, not to be outdone, buckled against a low rusted metal fence hidden in the pachysandra, as I knelt to pull weeds. Fortunately, I'd had a tetanus shot within the prescribed ten years. The freebie I received was a two-inch jagged scar on my shin...which soon elongated into a snake-like five-inch scar, the additional three inches the result of a stubborn eliptical machine which refused to stop as I stepped off behind it.
I received my latest badge of dishonor during a shopping trip to a very large Macy's store. I was pushing some tops across a rack crammed with black, white, sunshine yellow, and lime green sitting on a table, when the entire rack began tilting in slow motion toward me. There was a clatter of metal on the floor as the upright stanchion of the display fell apart and the merchandise fell into my lap and against my forearm. The rep setting up the display rushed around the jumble toward me. "I filled it too full," she admitted.
No kidding?!!?
"Are you hurt?" she asked, examining my arm. "Let's go to the office, We can get medical help and file a report."
I followed three steps behind, holding my right arm in the air as beads of blood bubbled up out of the rip where my skin lay backwards. The surrounding area of my forearm looked like eggplant peels, with bruises blossoming around the laceration. Both hands sported matching aubergine buds where I'd tried to prevent the rack from falling into me - nothing new, since the slightest knock to my limbs had been producing the same purple glow in my "golden" years.
After the Lagerfeld rep dropped me in a chair in the office, she explained what had happened to the manager and took off to clean up her mess. The manager requested medical help and followed the rep down the hallway. I didn't think to request a gift card as compensation, and none had been offered.
I waited fifteen minutes for a very overweight man carrying a first-aid kit. He donned surgical gloves, tore open the wrapper of an astringent pad, and handed it to me. Then he helped apply two band-aids. "Please tell me what happened, miss, so I can write a report." I gave as concise a version as possible, blood still trickling down the arm I held in the air, the manager still in absentia. Several minutes later, I headed toward the elevator, wiping away the trickle with a Macy's paper towel. The tear healed within ten days with antibiotic cream and non-stick bandages.
I have begun adding Collagen to my juice to strengthen my hair, muscles, bones, and paper-thin skin. I have reduced my intake of Omega 3 fatty acids (blood thinners to reduce inflammation), since "bruising...is just an unfortunate side effect of a medication that is providing important protection from stroke." (My Mercy online technical support for non-medical questions)
I could stay home in my bubble. But an island vacation sounds more inviting.
