The breakfast update, as it tends to go (and as it tends to excite the taste buds of Tripp all the way over in Rome!): a mug of Irish Breakfast tea with a bit of honey; two, toasted, multigrain waffles with margarine and low-sugar Smuckers strawberry jam; and a red apple, sliced thin and topped off with thin slices of sharp cheddar cheese. Music? Sara Groves. I’m feeling the need for a little unconditional love this morning, as I woke up afraid and confused again, having spent my entire dreaming night running and hiding from someone who had kidnapped me… again. Current outlook for the day: mostly cloudy, with a very high chance of rain.
And onto the more introspective and semi-interesting part of the post. People hit me. Often, and hard. (Warning, life spoiler ahead!) See, I have advertised for a very long time the idea that I have no feeling in my upper left arm, and often offer it as a punching bag for those around me who are in distress. The truth is, I have plenty of feeling in my upper left arm, and the rest of my body for that matter. However, I have a very high tolerance for pain. Take, for example, the many times I broke a bone in my body during elementary school. In kindergarten, I slammed my left hand in the car door, which then locked, leaving my hand skewed and stuck inside. Instead of freaking out from the pain and shouting wildly for my mom to come help me, I simply stood there and very patiently said, “Mom.” No answer. “MOM!” She kept walking away from the car. “Mom! My hand is stuck in the door!” And then she freaked out and started crying, while I stood there, probably tapping my foot, just waiting for her to unlock the door so I could free my hand.
Anyway, my upper left arm. I can stand the pain, so I let people hit me. The other day I walked into the Lodge, and there was a whole crowd of girls comforting one of our sisters. I decided not to crowd her and let the girls who were already there comfort her, lend her emotional support as she sat there crying. I was standing around with a couple people when I hear out of the masses, “Vee-duh-pee! Come over here and let Spence hit you!” No questions asked, I walked over, offered my arm, and let the athletic training major and discus thrower punch my arm over and over again. I never flinch; I don’t want them to feel bad or think that they’re causing me any pain. I feel it all, but I tolerate it. Sometimes people just need a physical outlet for their rage, pain, sorrow, joy, whatever. I’m happy to provide that release and incur the bruises!
And yet again, in unrelated news, my roommate just came back into the room to get ready to leave for class. I coughed, and she said, “Roomie, are you dying?!” I pouted and said, “No.” To which she responded, “DAMMIT!” I love my roommate, I really do! Oh, and there were just enough apple slices to match the number of cheese slices. What a happy coincidence!
