The past couple of days have been an unintentional battle zone of sorts.  Saturday, the BF headed to Vermont for a day of skiing.  He wasn’t even away thirty-six hours.  But in his absence, I morphed into a complete freak.  I walked into the coffee table with my left knee on Saturday afternoon.  Minutes later the knee swelled up and in short order I was the recipient of a huge purple bruise.  Sunday morning I woke up for spin class and a movie with the Roommate.  While in the bathroom getting ready, I tripped and inexplicably landed with my sock-covered foot planted in the toilet.  My groggy brain took a few seconds to process this:  WET.  COLD.  WRONG.  I ripped the sock off my foot and sprinted across my palatial home to throw the dripping fabric into my dirty clothes basket.  On the way, my right knee slammed the coffee table.  I headed to spin with two bruised, swollen knees and a cold foot.  When the BF got back, I told him he probably shouldn’t leave town ever again.  I’m too dangerous on my own.

Then there was today.  I had a doctor’s appointment for a minor procedure that I thought would be a breeze.  Yeah…WRONG.  The BF waited patiently outside as I endured what can best be described as primal torture, all because of something that could have been prevented with better choices in the past.  Tears ran down my face in response to the pain, and the nurse handed me Kleenex and asked if I was okay.  Which made me cry even more, as kindness shown to me during my own weakness always does.  I was caught in the middle of a perfect storm of physical pain, emotional regret, and an unintentional public display of vulnerability.  For a solid ten minutes, I felt completely broken.

But…then.

I walked into the cold, clear sunshine and saw the BF waiting across the street for me.  Meanwhile, a crazy man a few feet from me stuck his hand down his pants and yelled nonsensically while dancing around.  I darted in escape across the street and into the BF’s coat, trying to speak, but tears and snot aren’t really a valid form of communication.  Being held in someone’s arms is, though.  So is a phone call from Sis and offers of ice cream from the Roommate.  And after the storm subsided, the BF and I communicated further over chips and guacamole.  Mine even came with a Corona! 

The Roommate and I watched three movies this weekend: The Hurt Locker, Dear John, and Life is Beautiful. (Explanation: it’s February in New York.)  After the sadness and violence ended and the credits rolled, I turned to her and said, “We’ve seen way too much war in the past twenty-four hours.”  And a fair amount of it, albeit on an incomparably smaller scale,  in our own lives.  Some of it that just happened, some that we brought on ourselves.  How amazing to look back now and know that all this time, through all of it, I was headed here.  To this place, with these people.  Makes the wounds bearable.