Rule #1 of Fight Club: don't blog about Fight Club

When I come home after work, generally I’m in one of two states.

State 1: Zombie State. Example: last Thursday I came home, drank half a bottle of wine in bed watching “Reno 911: Miami!” passed out and slept from 9:30pm until it was time to get up and get ready for work the next morning.

State 2: 12 Year-Old Boy with ADD/ADHD State. Example: A few weeks ago I had an enormous surplus of energy. Where this excess energy sometimes comes from, I have no idea, seeing as I’ve been compared to a housecat on numerous occasions. I decided to channel this energy in a constructive manner by challenging my boy roommate, Blair (of wrote the last Drinking Game fame) to a fight club. Blair being basically me in male form whole-heartedly agreed, and the battle ensued. Most of the fight was pretty innocent, spent rolling around and tackling each other while trying to sneak a punch in, but towards the end of the fight, we had a good old fashioned “How Hard Can You Punch Me?” competition. Two things went awry at this point. First, I held back. I should have beat the shit out of my dear best friend, but I know my own strength (Eddie can attest to this, we took kickboxing together), and I didn’t want to hurt the poor thing with my Hulk-like strength. The other thing I forgot is that Blair is athletic and really strong. I don’t know why I forgot this, seeing as Blair is a dancer and once was a gymnast…boy is strong. As my mom later said to me, “The boy may be gay, but the boy is still a boy.” So I let him pound away on my right upper arm until I couldn’t take it anymore. The result was a beautifully impressive black and blue bruise the size of a baseball that lasted about a week and a half.

However, once the bruise disappeared, I sort of missed it. It made me feel so badass. And it’s been cold in New York as of late, so I’m always wearing long sleeves or a wrap. One night last week when I had another random and unexplained bout of high energy, I dared Blair to punch the spot where the old bruise was as hard as he could repeatedly in hopes that a new bruise would return (I swear I’m not a masochist weirdo…I just get bored and I like proving my high tolerance for pain…I DON’T NEED TO EXPLAIN MY ACTIONS TO YOU!) And indeed, a new bruise is back…and bigger and blacker and greener than ever. I was impressed for a few days until my mom informed me that such a bruise could turn into a blood clot, move to my brain and kill me (Fight Club not over however, we’ll just move to my left arm, and I won’t hold back anymore).

So the Fight Club, and resulting massive bruise really haven’t been a problem until today. This morning I was running late, and before I was out the door, I realized I was wearing short sleeves, exposing my disgusting and suspicious bruise. With no time to coordinate a whole new outfit, I ran to my dresser and half-assed covered it up with foundation and shimmery powder. So now I’m walking around with a bruise that looks like I’m desperately trying to cover up a beating I got from my boyfriend with shimmery powder.

If I had a quarter from the number of concerned/odd looks I’ve gotten from co-workers today, I’d have a shitload of quarters. When faced with inquisitive co-workers, it would probably be less embarrassing to mutter some cliché line a la Lifetime made for TV movie (maybe specifically from the one starring Tiffany Amber Thiessan where her army husband beats her but nobody cares because that’s the price of being an army wife…anyone? No takers? Only I saw that?) like “Oh that…I…I uh ran into a wall,” or “Oh THAT…haha…no my army husband beats me.” These statements are all less embarrassing and more socially acceptable than “Oh that? My roommate and I sometimes play Fight Club and see how hard we can wail on each other. He’s good. I’m secretly a 12-year-old boy on the inside with the body of a stacked 22-year-old woman. Well see you later in the conference room!”

So if anyone asks, Blair is my husband, he’s a serviceman and he puts me in my place when I get new fangled ideas like maybe getting a part-time job or learning to read.

Sha la la!
Patsy