A purplish line bloomed up beneath the usual bronze of my thigh and I poked it absently, trying to mentally trace its origins. Saturday night, that must be it. It was right about stage height, right where I was pressed up near the amp as I belted out cheesy eighties tunes before climbing up on stage to bring it home with “Don’t Stop Believing” (really, how could I resist?). There was another mark on each shin from a Molly Ringwald dancing neighbor a little out of control. My neck was even more of a wreck. Somehow I always seem to forget that just because I have the hair doesn’t mean head-banging is a good idea. It will inevitably hurt the next day. But caught up in the moment, I never remember to be careful, to take things slow, and remember what tomorrow will feel like. Story of my life. No really, story of my life.
I’ve never been the type of person that does things halfway. Blame it on being an Ares, my fiery West Indian blood that’s naturally infused with rum and sunshine, or the simple fact that I never learned to let regrets hold me back for long. Any way you slice it, I tend to throw myself into things head over heels with very little regard for what harm might come to me. It’s resulted in a lot of bumps, bruises, and bloody noses over the years. Concussions on the basketball court, burned fingers from chem lab, shin splints from track, bloody noses from that sledding hill that turned into a ramp into the street. I blame my brother really. He was older, cooler, tougher and I wanted to tag along everywhere he went, and he’s a tough cookie to keep up with.