jacked.

I’m covered in bruises.

Not little tiny ones, but the kind where people grab my wrist and go, “Oh, my God. What happened to you?” It started with just a couple, but now there’s a rather large one on the inside of my left elbow that’s getting uglier every day, and one on top of my left forearm that actually hurts. This morning stee pointed out little ones along the back of my left arm. There’s a scratch on the inside of my right arm. I don’t know where it came from.

This leads to only a few possible conclusions.

I am sleep-bruising, beating myself up while I’m dreaming. This is a little possible, as I sometimes wake up thinking my arm has fallen off, only to find I’m sleeping on top of it. I flail my arms out to hit the snooze button, and probably knock my wrist/elbow/forearm into the bookshelf a number of times trying to stop Adam Carolla from waking me into reality. One time I cut my face in my sleep when my ring caught my nose when I slid my head across the back of my hand.

It is possible that my blood is trying to escape my body because it’s sick of the way I treat it. I fuel six-mile runs on mostly toxins. And then I have like, a glass of orange juice and some eggs and expect the health to just ooze into my body. Instant revival. I guess it might not work that way.

It’s likely that I’m not noticing how often I bang myself into things, because I’m not really paying attention to a lot of the outside-outside world. I’m in the middle of writing things, and the emotional stuff that’s been going on, and it’s keeping me in my head in such a way that probably I’m slamming my thighs into desk corners without even noticing I’ve done it, just soaking up the pain. Time to pay more attention.

When I was younger, these bruises always meant I was about to have a growth spurt, or I was currently going through one, and I wasn’t used to the new dimensions of my body. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m growing. Not upward or outward, but just changing enough that I’m walking differently.

Or, again, maybe I’m flailing around more than usual.

According to this site (and my primary care practitioner is Dr. Google), I’m most likely fine, and it’s diagnosis: klutz. That’s what I figured all along. But if I keep waking up to find my body spotted in purple, I figure it’s asking me to either stop walking into doorframes (which I’m absolutely incapable of doing, by the way. My arms are magnets and the doorframes beckon my flesh with metal love songs), or find a way to make my life less bumpy. In any event, it was a nice excuse to have a steak last night.