I'm not very good with pain. It hurts. Duh. When I was a teenager I had one ear pierced. I told people that it was because everybody has two ears pierced and I'm just rebellious like that. When the truth was, I only got one ear done because it hurt and I didn't want to deal with pain on both sides of my brain. I reaaalllly wanted to get my nose pierced. I lusted for one of those little diamond studs on the side of one's nostril. (I was a nerd for most of my life, excuse me for wanting to walk on the wild side.) But I never got one because it would hurt. Instead, I got one of those magnetic rings and wore that around. (Epitome of lame-ness, I know.) I reeeally want a tattoo. When we first fell in love the Hot Man went to have my name tattooed on his back. I eagerly said that I would have his name tattooed on mine. He went first. I...umm...went never. Chickened out. Still don't have a single piece of body ink. ( But my name does look beeeyootiful on the Hot Man...)
I pondered upon pain the other day- as I had a troublesome tooth taken care of. (the best time to ponder pain). I realized that my problem is not so much the actual PAIN but the imagining, visualizing, anticipating and dreading of pain. And the imagining of all the things that could possibly go wrong while that pain is being administered. Maybe that's one of the side-effects of being a writer with an overactive imagination? The whole time I'm at the dentist with my face numbed, I'm tensed up, fists clenched, eyes scrinched, WAITING for it to hurt. Psyching myself up not to punch the dentist in the face when that pain hits me..not to scream...not to jerk my face away thus causing the dentist to make a mistake and stab the steel drill into my throat...severing my carotid artery...causing the dental team to panic as my blood spurts all over the room and I stagger to my feet...bleed to death in a few messy minutes...collapse and die in a messy heap on the floor. Imagination Overkill. And then the dentist says, 'That's it. All done.' And I breathe a sigh of relief. Glad that my carotid artery is still intact. I am still alive.
I'm pitiful I know. Which was further emphasized when it was time to take my Bella Beast for her 4 yr old immunizations, I was crying inside on her behalf. Cringing, whimpering silent tears as I smiled and told her to be brave. I was praying for angelic assistance on her behalf. I was ready to kill nurses who don't handle the needles properly and hurt my child unnecessarily. Especially when they told me they had to give her TWO shots at the exact same moment, one in each arm.
And then my daughter hopped up on the bed. Took off her shirt. Offered the nurses her arms. They shot her with needles. She didnt even flinch. Or cry. Or get mad. And when they were done, she took the candy they offered her, told them thank you and skipped out of there. Huh? And when I asked her, 'Is your arm sore darling?' She looked at me like I was idiot. 'No. I got big muscles.'
What did I learn?
1. Bella is an embracer of pain.
2. Bella's got big muscles.
3. Bella must not be related to me.
Are you an embracer of pain? Am I the only chicken in the blogging world? Oh, and bonus points for anyone who can identify the song that is the title of this blogpost!
Ok, there's chickens like me and then there's seriously over the top nutsos...ouch.
