I remember I blogged a while back about why scars and bruises are so cool, because they tell stories and are proof that you're actually out there living in the world. And it's not like I've changed my mind about their cool factor, but now at 18 and a half, the bruises and cuts and scrapes are kind of painful.
I went to the beach with my floor this weekend. I spent more time in the ocean than I think I ever have before. And it was probably only about 20 or 30 minutes. But I'm not that strong of a swimmer and the waves definitely convinced me to attack a rock or two. My legs suffered the most from that. My right knee had a steady trickle of blood flow down once I left the water after nearly drowning (literally...I freaked out, couldn't reach the bottom, was tired, swimming got me nowhere, freaked out some more, and the roomie saved me. I was about five feet away from sandy solid ground). I have a scratch that went from my knee to my ankle, and my left pointer finger knuckle is cut. Add in a few bruises and contusions on my legs and that's my physical state right now.
It's a good story to tell. I ran into rocks. The ocean threw me around as if my life could end with a pull of its graceful current, and I could have died (for the second time that day, but that's another story with, surprisingly, no bruises to show for it). But getting old, realizing that my frail earthly flesh is falling apart, is painful. My knee hurts. My back is tense and my abs are so sore that I have to cringe when I laugh. I'm falling apart, it seems. Or, I guess, my body is falling apart, where as my soul is refreshed each day.
It's a nice thing to realize.
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