I bruise easily. No, I didn’t run into a doorknob. I didn’t fall down the stairs. I didn’t accidentally hit myself with a kitchen cabinet door (no, wait, that one I did do, but it didn’t leave a mark, thankfully!). And no, I didn’t fall on my ass while I was drunk (really, I never have, as hard to believe as that may seem).

The one on my arm I got from a hug. The one on my neck… never mind. The one on my knee is from leaning on the edge of the couch. The rest that shall not be named… yeah, you know.

Yes, I do get them that easily. I’ll know instantly when someone’s just bruised me. Whether it be from handshake, hug, pat on the arm, or what I’m totally pretending I’m not talking about; the second enough pressure is applied I can tell you with startling accuracy if I’ll get a bruise or not.

It runs in my family, though. When I was little, I once gave my mom nasty bruises on her hands and wrists because she was tickling me and I was trying to grab her hands to stop her. It looked like she had been maliciously attacked.

We joked that she was going to send me on Jerry Springer for one of those “My Kid’s a Monster” episodes. I argued that I would need more piercings to be convincing, though, and she changed her mind.

I didn’t used to be so bruise prone. I mean, I bruiselessly fell out of enough trees as a little kid that all those jokes about being dropped on my head and dying brain cells were totally justified. It really started when I got about 45lbs into the weight loss. When I finally went to my doctor because I was afraid that I had some kind of blood disease or something totally alarmist like that, he told me that as my skin got looser I would bruise more easily until it tightened back up after weight loss.

So, pretty much, I will look like a battered woman until the end of this shenanigan. Oh, and my bruises pretty much read like a book.

It’s just not subtle when you have a hand print on you.

Granted, it almost seems appropriate given that subtly is not my strong point.

There’s just that certain awkwardness when your co-worker notices that you have matching thumb shaped bruises on both your wrists. It’s even better when your mother notices them. Though, that’s not nearly as bad as the time you were staying at your mom’s along with other visiting friends of the family and woke up with the hickey that went on for six inches with a bite mark at the top of it.

Thanks so much for solidifying my reputation as a vampire.

Oh, and I don’t think our relationship is a secret anymore.

Way to friggin go.

Now please excuse me while I go secretly giggle myself into a pile of laughing goo because I think the whole thing is HILARIOUS even if no one else does.

No, I don’t have a proper sense of embarrassment.

Yeah, how are you going to respond now when I use the comeback “bite me” in front of our families? Hmm?

I win.

Oh, and imagine the awesomeness of the time I went dress shopping with my mom and she spotted the aforementioned handprint on my hip.

Oh, that? I just put my hands on my hips a little too hard.

What? It’s bigger than my hand?

Well… um…

Ooh look! A pretty dress!

*Note to self, don’t ask mom to help zip dresses. She’ll gain way too much amusement when you start blushing.*

Yeah, my mom’s not shy about making fun of me for such things. I think she rather enjoys it, in fact.

It’s a good thing she didn’t spot the ones on my… never mind.

Despite the awkward moments that have come of such bruises, I really have a love-hate relationship with them. When they first started showing up it scared me a lot. As hard as it was to get me to the doctor for strep throat (three times), an IUD trying to expel itself and causing contractions for ten days, a kidney infection, and seven weeks of bleeding due to birth control, I went pretty much right away when the bruises started appearing.

Once I found out that they were no bid deal, I resented them a bit. It made me angry that not only did I have to contend with saggy skin but now I had to deal with nasty bruises? Suck.

Now I love them. Not only do they remind me of the fact that my body is changing when I forget and can only see the lumps, but they feel like little souvenirs. I can tell you exactly how I got each one.

I mean, I probably won’t, but I could.

No, let’s be honest, I probably would.

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