Confused childhood memories of a karate competition, clammy hands and that clouded vision that manifests in terrifying surroundings.
Lines of kids my height, cheaply coloured too-bright belts shining out among identical starkwhite uniforms. The stench of the chalk from the black belt tryouts at the other end of the echoing room sticking in our nostrils. Bare feet mirrored in the shining gymnasium floor.
I was always looking at the floor.
I don't remember any faces. I was more terrified of the people than of making a mistake in sparring.
This ache in my chest is like that song we made out to in the back seat on my first disaster date, every time I hear strains of it passing, I am surrounded by the smell of his father's filched aftershave and sloppy wet lips.
Lying on the stretcher afterwards, a (rare-for-then) lucid thought marched across my brain, asking me if I'd learned that I should focus on the real dangers (like missing a step and catching my opponent's heel full force in the sternum and being rocketed several feet before bruising my tailbone) rather than spend my time in terror of being noticed and at worst, ridiculed. At the time some answering part of my brain decided that it was more relieved to be out of the action. On a stretcher, you're supposed to be a freak. The novelty outweighs the drooping shoulders, the catcall-inviting self-consciousness.
This flashback from beyond the last straight-shouldered decade, is brought to you by the current purple swelling hiding the tattoo on my chest.
Yesterday, all confidence and energy and gusto, leaping on and off sidewalks as the only-minorly-terrifying beasts they are, the all too rare outburst of parisian sun was too deep in our eyes for the traffic lights to show.
So I was already hurtling for the crossing at Bastille when S�bastien's arm shot out to stop my oncoming up-close-and-personal interaction with a random charcoal grey Renault.
I grabbed for the brown iron posts that stick up out of the streetcorners instead, unclear on exactly how I planned to use it to stop.
The decision was made for me (as is wont to happen when I fail to grip it strongly enough in my determined fists) and
my blades slipped on the braille carpet that delimits the end of the pedestrian zone for blind people.
I went down. Hard.
ON the poteau.
Something precisely the size of the heel that nearly broke the cartilage and ribs to the left of my sternum so many turbulent years ago, hurtled into precisely the same spot as my knees discovered their own sudden volition and proceeded to use it in order to bruise themselves on the concrete.
Confidence shaken, breath catching on the sudden pangs that seemed to be spreading imaginary barbs on my lungs, when I crossed paths with Manu later on in the marathon (no way was I going to skip out because of an injury incurred on the way THERE), my hair matted with effort and all my concentration focused on getting to the top of that next hill
His surprise at my lack of exuberant greeting brought bubbling up all those self-conscious years that lay buried in my head, flooding in and nearly drowning me as I kissed him hello and inquired about his sister "chaispaski".
Suddenly the crowd of several thousand skaters was filled with strangers, and the flirtish hello from this cop or that young american tourist barely shook me out of my stupour.
As I heard the giggling automaton that lives in my mouth giggle a "talk about a nasty sounding drawl" to send the pastywhite yankeetourist packing, it took all the magic of last week to remind me
I'm not that terrified little girl anymore.
Sitting in the tiny fifteen-si�ges th�atre a handful of hours later, watching a three-man performance of the typical intense send-your-brain-thumping modernist style, I woke up from a momentary brilliant daydream of him, to run curious fingers over the suddenly malleable spot on my chest and wonder if I escaped with only a bruise again this time.
The white-coated attendants of the tournament so many years ago were surprised that my ribs hadn't cracked from the blow.
I am hoping that I am not so old yet for this not to be just the same contusion.
(It's not as though anything changes if the bone is bruised or broken, sauf perhaps the positions engaged in when my baby drops by for his visit)
The cartilage moves strangely underneath my fingers, and my chin dives downwards everytime I laugh, guarding against the sting.
But sitting here my sternum feels less tender than the day before
I am proud of my athletic injury
And I am remembering the caf�-th�atre of Friday night, the laughter and utter lack of time to sit and breathe this weekend
And suddenly that insistant self-consciousness is once again pushed to bay.