chillow

Okay, so thanks to that trail run trip, I have a gaping wound below my right elbow that I've fondly nicknamed "The Alien Amoeba." Various yellow-purple bruises and scabby scrapes dot the skin between TAA and my wrist. Unlike the similarly puss-y (that's PUSS-y, folks) wound beneath my knee, which is easily hidden, TAA has put in an 8-hour appearance at my office every day this week. Yet not a single one of my male coworkers has said a word.

That's right--I work within six feet of three mouthy men who share a propensity for uttering a phrase that describes the action of, well...of ripping one a new &*#hole (I'm gagging just thinking of this set of words, which I detest) and none have so much as inappropriately joked, "What, are you getting your ass kicked at home?" I thought I'd get to share my war story at work, but nope. What a letdown.

If I were at my old magazine job I'd have my fabulous female colleagues checking in on me ten times a day, bringing me ointments and ice-cream and begging to hear, again and again, how I flew through the air. Sigh! Are men oblivious? Do I even have to ask? I asked my husband, and he said: "Huh? You mean you hurt yourself again?" Fine. So I am always falling and banging and bruising. But the guys at work don't know that!