I woke up this morning to the alarm and a screaming headache. Tried to ease it, failed, and called in sick, and went back to sleep with a handful of painkillers and a weighted lavendar bag on my eyes.
It worked. I woke up at noon feeling marginally more human, if a bit migraine groggy. Which is good, as I have a conference call in an hour, and I need to clean up my presentation for Montreal tomorrow, pack a bag, and drive up to Canada in a few hours.
But first I needed to tend my thumb; I smashed it with a mallet last night working on a leather project without Justin’s help. So after my shower I needed to clean the blood blister, release the pressure, and bandage it again. So I did. And as I stood there, holding a bloody alcohol wipe and awkwardly maneuvering a Neosporin tube without using the injured thumb, I glanced in the mirror. Wet hair, jeans, battered army green Blue Sun tshirt, 18 year old wool-and-cork clogs on my feet.
And I marveled at the facets of my life. This woman, right now, slightly mangled, very tired, and wearing her favorite clothes, is in fact the same one who’ll stand up and speak for an hour in front of a room of Canadian librarians tomorrow in a pink and yellow Jackie-O-esque shift dress and peep-toe patent wedges. And as I do, I’ll have freshly painted fingernails… and a bloody bandaid on my left thumb.
And every bit of it’s me.