She who walks into walls

Terz says that would be my politically incorrect Native American name, if I had one. He ain't wrong.

I have a mystical talent for being a klutz: tripping over invisible nonexistent cracks on the ground, stubbing my toe on the corner of the bed or a chair, bumping my head on things (or against Terz's head). This past week has turned up a bruise of unknown origins on the side of my leg, which is really nothing remarkable because in any given week, I'll have equally mysterious bruises show up on the side of my knees or on my lower calves. Nothing as dramatic as Ondine's recent dance-induced war injuries, but enough to make me go, "Hmmm ... "

Of course, now that we have Ink, that's even more cause for picking up knocks and bruises. The little guy thinks our every movement is an invitation to play and enjoys nothing more than darting between our legs where possible. If I had a dollar for every time he's come close to tripping me over, I'd have enough money to pay for his monthly food and kitty litter.

Meanwhile, left to my own devices, I'm perfectly capable of, say, swinging the back of my palm into the corner of a plastic table, which doesn't sound very painful, but trust me, it feels as though some implement was stabbed through my palm, and it's been throbbing since for the better part of the day. No visible bruising and only the faintest swelling, which might in fact be perceived only by my pity-seeking imagination, but my hand's not pleased if I try to use it for anything that's more strenuous than typing or writing.

Oh, all right. I'll stop whining and go back to work now.

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