A week ago, I ran into my doorway and scraped the shit out of my hand. My knuckles were bleeding and it hurt like hell. But my hand looked totally tuff. I had an obvious injury, but I couldn't go around telling everyone I bumped into my own door. Because that would make me a moron. (ahem) So I decided to tell people I punched a wall.
Hey, guys do it all the time. So much so that ER doctors have a name for this particular outburst of macho--the Boyfriend Break. My husband did it when he was in college and his psycho girlfriend was making him crazy, man. The most well-bred, well-mannered gentleman I know could not resist the wall punch when his kids just would. not. sleep. Which cracks me up because I could sooner see Miss Manners punching a wall than this guy.
I even remember my dad doing it when I was 7. I was not being a morning person and my mom was trying to leave my dad with the horrific task of getting me off to school. He not only punched the wall, but the wall was made of cheap drywall and he punched a hole clean through to the other side. He was pissed, but somewhere deep inside I bet he felt like a total badass for punching a fist-sized hole in our house. And that wall never fucked with him again.
Shockingly, no one believed me when I said I punched a wall. Rick said that was just because they didn't know me well enough. I've still got the scabs on my hand. Maybe I just need a little more embellishment to secure my rep. I could be the only mom at Tea's preschool with LOVE and HATE tattooed across my knuckles. That would be cool.
No comments:
Post a Comment