This past week I fell out of a chair and into a bucket.

There was nothing extraordinary going on at the time – like I wasn’t making an attempt to test the limits of physics or anything. I simply reached back to grab a piece of paper on a table. Next thing I know I’m half-sitting in a bucket with my back and head against the wall. There were onlookers present, of course: a preschooler and the graduate student I was “supervising” (Har!). Both stopped what they were doing to gawk at me. I continued to sit in the bucket while they continued to stare at me well past the time that was comfortable for any of us.

The preschooler was the first to point out matter-of-factly, “You fell out of that chair.”

“Yes, I did.” I said with a little half-giggle.

“Are you ok?” The graduate student asked.

“Yes.” I lied, while continuing to sit in the bucket.

Truth be told, it hurt and I wasn’t ready to move yet. Plus having them stare at me was awkward, so I grabbed the piece of paper I had been reaching for and pretended to read it from my bucket perch.

When it became clear that I wouldn’t be following the bucket trick with a spectacular encore, or any further commentary, my audience went back to what they had been doing.

Eventually I got up.

I’m mostly ok, though my back has felt a bit bojangled ever since the incident.  But I’m really proud of the bruise that is spreading in sunset-hued splendor across my outter thigh.  No joke, it’s fantastic–everyday a different color. Yesterday it was mostly black with a splattering of angry red. Today it’s a splotch of midnight purple fading to a bluish-yellow haze around the periphery.

When I roll on my left side at night, the bruise wakes me with a blare of pain, shocking me in the wee hours of the morning into a sensibility that I’m injured, that something significant happened, and that it is happening still as my body forces me to be more conscious, so it can heal itself.

It’s the sort of pain that’s almost pleasant.