Crazy B*tch (Memoirs of a Lemon Lover in Recovery)
Chapter 26—Hey Ma, Wanna See My Bruise?
Since my mom’s stern verbal reprimand, I did manage to make some strides towards addressing my road rage issues. The progress was almost reaching the point of noticeable when I had my first relapse.
As things like this are wont to do, it all started innocently enough. I was on my way home. It was pay day, so I had decided to stop by a bank machine on the way home. This was something of a routine since I started my “golden repaint account”. I divided my check between bills, car maintenance, and the “golden repaint account”. As I stepped out in the bright sunshine, I saw something that made my heart stop.
A large woman had just bought an ice cream cone for herself, and her little fluffy dog. She had just completed the waddle from the ice cream shop to her car. Then, she proceeded to wow and amaze the world with her multitasking skills: she started her car, put it in reverse, and continued to shove an ice cream cone down her gullet. To my horror, she over looked one tiny, yet crucial step—she neglected to look over her shoulder as she backed up.
As her ugly brown, fat-assed old lady car hurdled itself to my perfectly parked, beautiful gold car, I yelled “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” and I started to sprint toward her car. I am sure I moved like the wind, but I felt as if I was lost in slow motion. By the time I got to her car she just shifted back into drive and began to pull forward (still inhaling ice cream with her little fu-fu dog). In a dramatic effort to get her attention, I extended my arm forward and banged on her trunk. The combination of the speed I was going, my non-sensible taste in foot wear, my poor balance, and the awkward angle my body was at turned out to be the perfect cocktail for falling spectacularly. So, as I thumped on her trunk I yelled, “HEY-WHOAAAHHHHHh–UNF”. My last few syllables were harshly stopped by the mighty thud of my body hitting the ground. Out of sheer reflex, I curled up into a fetal position just under the bumper of her car.
From the fat woman’s point of view, she was enjoying a lovely ice cream with her little fu-fu, when all of a sudden, out of the blue, she heard a “THUMP ‘HEY-WHOAAHHH—UNF/THUD’.” It is understandable that she might have assumed she drove someone over—especially after heaved her self out of the car to take a look. She still had the remains of her ice cream cone in her hand, and remnants of her tasty treat smeared on her face. Poor girl just about dropped her faux designer mega purse at the sight of me. “Oh no! Did I just drive you over?”
My thud to the ground had knocked the wind out of my lungs, so I was at a conversational disadvantage. Moreover, I was at a loss for words to respond to one of the most profoundly stupid questions I had ever heard. Did she drive me over? What flavour of ice cream is so good that you lose all abilities to notice what goes on around you? I mustered up every residual molecule of air left in my lungs and squeaked, “No…but you hit my car!”
She shovelled what was left of her icy treat, wiped her hands on her sweat pants, and helped me off the ground. Standing upright helped me regain my air. I started to explain (politely—as per Sane-Elsa’s request) what I saw happen, and what I did. I explained how I chased after her, and how I fell—ass to ground, legs slammed up to bumper, and head bouncing. My shins hurt, my ass hurt, my neck was remembering its whole little love affair with whiplash. For all my bruises, bumps and scrapes, it turns out there were no discernable marks on my car.
I just couldn’t bring myself to tear into this woman. She was far too stupid to even understand exactly why I might be tearing into her. She was still wondering if I was lying about running me over—asking me if I was sure she didn’t run me over. All I wanted was to return her to the village from which she came—after all they probably noticed by now their idiot had wandered off.
Physically, I was hurting. The glow of doing the kind and honest thing was cold comfort. The heels of my hands were bruised, my left elbow was bruised and bleeding, the same was also true of my right shin, and the coup de grâce was a big horkin’ bruise on my ass. As far as bruises go, it was impressive. Its diameter was at least 15 centimetres, and it was a resplendent mixture of blue, purple, and green. It did not take long for my mom to notice I was banged up a little. She listened carefully to my story, and self-pierced her tongue while doing so. She probably figured I learned a powerful lesson about acting on rage.
She insisted on seeing all my wounds. My mom was a huge believer of hydrogen peroxide followed by a strict follow-up regimen of Polysporin ©. She believed that this ointment was god’s gift to the clumsy, and that it healed everyone and everything—regardless. Like a rocket scientist crossed with a brain surgeon, she methodically tended to each and every visible wound. I didn’t mention my butt, I was a little embarrassed about it. I know my mom saw my butt (and tended to it) long before I did, but the whole situation, and how I earned that bruise had me feeling a little sheepish.
It was a few days later when I finally mentioned my butt-bruise to my mom. It was an early morning, before my dad woke up, and while I was still in my nightie. She inquired after my wounds, and probably sensed that I hadn’t shared with her all the information pertaining to my injuries because she kept asking those prompting type questions. She was relentless, so I finally caved and confessed to having an impressive butt-bruise. My mom said, probably more rhetorically than what I gathered in that moment, that she would like to see a butt-bruise like that. So I lifted up my nightie and mooned my mom, right there in the middle of the kitchen.