Yeah, it was all me.
I’m 5’ 2”. I guess you could say I'm petite. And I’m about as strong as I look—which is not at all. But did that stop me from relocating furniture, pulling boxes out of closets (onto my head a of couple times), and dragging exercise equipment out of the garage during my therapeutic domicile redo? You know the answer: Of course not. I’m about determined as I look as well—which is a whole helluva lot. (I’m my mother’s daughter and super proud of that.) So I use what’s available to me: shins, forearms, feet, noggin. And I bruise so easily that I forget which injury came from what activity.
Since I finished the post-split house stuff, it’s like a I have a brand new body. Sure, it’s still pudgy where I don’t want it to be and the whitest one you’ve ever seen (I promise to say more on that later), but it’s nearly bruise free!
Until last weekend, that is. I woke up on Friday morning to discover a massive bruise just below my left knee. It’s the size of a small melon. I couldn’t figure out how I got it. That is until I went to yoga and did a straight-legged sit-up. Then it hit me. Or rather, I hit me. How did I get that big bruise on my leg? Oh, I whacked my own forehead on my shin. So I have to ask— Should I feel terrific that I’m flexible enough to do that or really stupid that I used my own head to bruise myself and then promptly forgot about it?
Really, really important note: The Wasband never, ever laid a hand on me. I have to be clear on that. He would never hit a chick. In your curiosity about the demise of my marriage don’t let yourself think that I was a battered woman. I wasn’t.