Ouch

I'm a total panty.

A week and a half ago, I fell. Now, saying, "I fell," doesn't seem to encompass how badly I fell. I should probably say something like, "I launched my body into the concrete." See, I was walking on PCH at night, by myself. This is not as seedy as it might sound. I mean, it is probably a lovely place. There didn't seem to be a whole lot of scary people around. It was Redondo. I think I was the only person using the sidewalk. I don't think people walk in LA unless they're working out. I was walking 2 blocks to the drugstore. But I was by myself in an unfamiliar place. So I was a little hyper aware.

All those self defense tips were running through my mind. Walk with a purpose. Keep your hands out of your pockets. Be aware of your surroundings. Watch for places where people might hide to jump you. Use all your senses.

I was walking at a fairly brisk pace. I was careful not to get too close to the hedges and buildings, and was careful to stay out of arms reach of the passing cars and the parked cars. You don't want to be inside my head. Scary things happen there.

So when I thought I heard footsteps behind me, despite my brisk pace, I turned my head to look. And I didn't notice that the sidewalk changed to grass. I felt my right foot slip. I tried to catch myself with my other foot but I think I couldn't get it forward in time. I realized that the sidewalk was coming up pretty darned fast and I had better just accept that I was falling.

Bam.

My left side caught the force of it. Amazingly, I didn't spill any blood on the sidewalk. At least not blood that seeped out of my body. The left side of my palm caught the worst of it. And my left boob. I'm a week and a half out and my left hand is still swollen. The bruise is fading, but I still have discomfort with that hand. Thankfully I can grasp. Weirdly, the back of my hand is what is swollen, and needed to be iced. I'm sure somebody out there can explain it to me, but it appears that all the bones are intact.

I've cursed my big boobs a lot in my life after puberty. Sure, they were fun to have in my teens and twenties. Got me lots of attention -- often unwanted. But it appears that they're not the shock absorbers that you'd' thing they'd be when you're slamming your body into pavement. Actually, maybe they are. Certainly somebody  out there can explain the physics to me. But they didn't protect me from rib damage. I don't think that I broke the ribs, but they sure do hurt even after all this time. Take in too deep a breath, try in any way to use my left pecs, and I'm in pain. Coughing is torture. Hell, burping is bad too. I hate this.

Maybe pain isn't the right word. Maybe it should just be the less frightening, "discomfort." Because surely, other people are truly in pain. If I don't move or use my left hand, or breathe deeply, or open the driver side door with my left hand... I'm fine.

Makes me wonder how those MMA fighters get the snot beat out of them and then get right back in the gym and workout. Surely their hands get hurt at least as badly as mine did. Remember when Rich Franklin continued to fight when he broke his hand? He didn't stop striking with that hand either. And hell, BJ Penn continued to fight with broken ribs -- I could even see the ribs sticking out at odd angles. Still he fought!

So I'm a total panty. I know I am.