I have a black eye. Sort of. There is a gash over my left eye, and some bruising around it. Purplish bruising, not black. Minimal swelling. A little tender.
Some people ask about it. Many don’t. I wonder about that.
I definitely have a discolored eye. It is very noticeable. Even I, with my poor vision, notice it. It makes me consider wearing eye make-up again. Maybe a little liner, a touch of mascara. Definitely eye shadow at least, I think, when I see how much more noticeable that eye is than the other one.
My cousin Greg had an eye that looked like this a few weeks ago. It turned out, he had been in a fight. A real boys-in-the-schoolyard, rolling around on the ground fistfight. I gave him quite a lecture about it.
“You’re too old for that,” I told him.
He tried to defend his actions by telling me events leading up to it.
“Nonsense,” I said. “That and more could happen to me, and I guarantee you, I would never end up in a fistfight! I’m too old for that, and so are you!”
He was a little sheepish (as he well should have been!) and I felt a little guilty for giving him hell. I’m his cousin, not his mother, and it’s not up to me to tell him when he does something stupid.
I thought that if I ran into him, and he asked me about my black eye, I could tell him that I got in a fistfight…so he could have the opportunity to lecture me back. He didn’t notice.
Maybe it’s not as noticeable as I think. Certainly a lot of people have seen it, and asked me what happened. I’ve been thinking the rest of them saw the black eye, politely did not mention it, and then later asked others, “Did you notice that shiner Cindy has? Wonder what happened to her!”
Well, just in case some folks have been thinking I finally aggravated someone enough so that they clocked me, or wondering if I’ve been getting in fistfights (at my age!), let me explain.
When my little dog, Rosa Parks, first comes to bed, she likes to burrow way under the covers, and sleep down near my feet. Then, at some point in the night she gets too warm, and makes her way out from under the covers. Then she’ll usually settle in behind my knees. Sometimes, though, she likes to stretch out on my pillow, between the top of my head and the headboard.
Pertinent to this story is the fact that I had not had Rosa Parks in for a nail trim in quite a while. Also, she has allergies. When they flare up – which they have been lately – they make her ears sore and itchy, so neither of us have been sleeping well.
A few nights ago, we started the night in the normal way. I was restless. I rolled over a time or two; I tucked an edge of blanket between my knees to keep them from rubbing together; I swaddled my feet in the covers to keep them warm. By the time Rosa Parks decided to make her way out from under the covers, she had quite a maze to wind her way through.
I woke up a little bit as she flung herself over my legs and nosed her way upward through tangled covers to get to fresh air. I felt her step heavily onto my shoulder. I was just about to move, to make it easier for her to get where she was going, when she stepped on my eye. Ouch! Of course I didn’t say that out loud, not wanting to make her feel bad, or do anything to cause her to not want to go right back to sleep. So, I suffered silently while Rosa Parks found a more suitable location, and soon we were both sound asleep again.
In the morning, I noticed the gash. And the purplish color.
Nothing too exciting…just an accidental nighttime altercation with my little dog!