Yesterday, I got my glasses fixed and ended the final instalment of ‘the Frisbee Incident’. No longer am I staring wistfully through the scratched glass dominating the space above my right pupil, like some annoying reference to the crack occupying the Liberty Bell’s exterior. My sight is as free and unhindered as it gets for a girl as short sighted as I. However, the annals of the Incident got me thinking about the injuries I sustained (and survived) whilst stateside.
Apart from a twin pair of bruises which arrived mysteriously from the airport that landed above both my right and left knees, staying with me the entire holiday whilst I bared my pale English legs, the first injury came on my third day as I held a gun in my hand. Or rather, failed to hold the gun. I kind of dropped it as it recoiled and it slipped from my shoulder… whilst it was firing (you know you want me around in times of crisis). Painful and typical of me to injure myself whilst trying to smash a flying orange target with an instrument designed for one purpose (with the ability of operation by the illiterate) I still managed to do that wrong and award myself the merit badge of a bruise blossoming on my shoulder like an odd blood stain.
The next day, I was down at the Jersey Shore and burned my shoulder. Red and pink and pale and awkward. An accurate description of the English child.
Rollercoasters. I got into a fight with a seat restraint coming off Fahrenheit. I can survive any number of ‘coasters, stand in line indefinitely, eat chocolate to an insane capacity, but I am incapable of getting out of a seat. I busted my chin and bled, looking for the entire weekend like I’d lost a fist fight. Classy English girl. Also, for the remainder of our road trip, each time I lifted up my arms (embarrassingly, to check how my sweat glands were faring in the high nineties) another bruise had added itself to the pale underneath of my upper arms… despite looking like I’d been beaten, I can vouch that they were from rollercoasters, like a stamp to remember where I’d been.
White water rafting for a non-swimmer is almost a death wish. Spending the day on the river was a kind of indescribable fun, totally upped my Pocahontas vibes and left me with bug bites, water in my nasal cavity and a pretty sore posterior. All completely worth it.
Then comes the fateful evening of The Frisbee Incident. During a game of Polish horseshoes, having just played a successful game of conceptual badminton (lacking the net), a seemingly inauspicious moment administered this scratch on my glasses as my cousin, lost in a wave of over-competitive-ness, throws the Frisbee directly to the bridge of my nose. The same cousin who had, the day before, been legally responsible for my well-being on the river was now the reason for my calamitous exclamation of “I could get a black eye!!!” The notion that it might have been my own sense of not looking and not concentrating on the game is completely false. False. It was his fault. Forgiving the person who had driven me across states, paid for me to ride on rollercoasters and down rivers, laced up my shoes and drove me home was quite easy. However the Incident, whilst forgiven, won’t be forgotten. This is possibly at my expense, for getting hit in the face with a plastic disk is really the cornerstone of civilised company.
The rest of the holiday passed in this sophisticated manner; of falling over and multiplying my bruises. On the last day I garnered an insect bite which I only noticed as I greedily devoured a bagel in my Uncle’s car (I also gained four pounds within a week, having weighed myself in my cousin’s bathroom and again on the scales that told me my bag was overweight… due to all the candy I was smuggling into England) which I have been absentmindedly scratching for the two weeks I have been back. Perhaps this is a subconscious masochistic yearning for return to the land of the Frisbee, and the home of the bruised.