I did not read the paper this morning. In fact, I got up extra early so I could get in the run I missed last night while I was wrestling with Old Man Trouble. It was a perfect GreyNorWet morning for a run. As Sam Elliot says it was blacker than a steer's tookus on a moonless night and it was cold and drizzly to boot. In other words, a regular December morning in Seattle. A few soggy blocks into my run my headlamp quit working, probably dreaming of nights in the tropics, but I loped on through the inky blackness. Half way through my run I wasn't loping but rather flying, at least for the briefest of moments, and then I was crashing with a nice sliding of cheek on sidewalk for a finish. I picked myself up, swore a bit, then laughed a bit and then after checking the difference between the warm wet bits and the cold wet bits I continued my run back to the warmth and light.
After a nice hot shower and before brekkie I put a largish bandage on the largish bloody abrasion on my cheek. I gave me a nice lived-in sort of look. Thus prepared for the day I set out for the Mordor of Sumner where my office is.
The really cool thing about an obvious facial bandage are the responses that it elicits from folks. The funniest are the people who completely ignored the existence of the dressing perched prominently across my face. It must be something along the lines of "Its none of my business, I am not going to ask." Of course, this approach robs me of the opportunity to make up crazy stories about what happened to my face which is the only rewarding part of further scarring up my mug.
I answered the first query of "What did you do to yourself" with the statement "The first rule of fight club is that no one talks about fight club". Given that I haven't shaved in a few days, I have been dressing scruffily and, of course, the big-assed bandage on my face, it was not a totally unbelievable response and had the person puzzling the possible truth of it. I used the Fight Club line a few more times until my boss asked me the inevitable. My boss has a crush on my wife so without batting an eye and completely dead-pan, I assured him that the TBG had clocked me in the face. He laughed and I reassured him several times that this was, indeed, the truth. I think he would have believed it until he parsed out that I was bandaged on the right cheek and the TBG is right-handed. I guess if you have a crush on someone you pay attention to what hand they use to do stuff. Or else he did not believe her left jab was sufficient to accomplish the task.
My only concern is not the scarring that is sure to take place because hey, chicks dig scars and it might make me look like a pirate. No, my concern is that Santa's beard may not quite cover the nasty part and a Santa with abraded cheeks might be a bit more rosy than anyone had in mind.
Oh well, make-up was made for such as this; hiding that which is too scary to view without it.
I had meant to blog all Pollyann-ish again about how not perusing all of the news has allowed me so much more reading time that I am devouring books at an alarming rate but the bloody cheek was lots more fun for me and I have to go read my book so I need to end this entry.
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