Picking the Scab

Life moves pretty fast in the big city. Not QUITE as fast as my boss headed for the swanky men's sample sale at a local hotel with me in tow for one of our "walk and talk" bonding sessions. My boss is a really great guy- we have now gone on several business trips together and thanks to his endless devotion to family and Mrs. Boss I am comfortable in what might otherwise be one of those ticklish socializing while working situations. Interestingly enough- we are, these days, friends who partner well at work and it is a big part of why I like going there- the paycheck also doesn't suck.

Mr. Boss is a fast talker and a faster walker. So we walked rather quickly to the corner of Madison, a stone's throw from Tiffany's- a place where Holly Go Lightly said nothing bad could EVER happen. Well we were a block south of those hallowed halls and that fact- or perhaps the uneven laying of asphalt allowed for an epic loss of grace. I fell off my shoes.

Anyone who has ever walked in heels and a skirt in Manhattan has experienced this- at least this is how I reassure myself. I landed on one summer bare knee and watched as Mr. B... kept walking and talking to me as if I were still next to him. It was 5 or more steps before he realized he was addressing a rather confused but exceedingly polite fellow business man who wasn't me. He stepped back as I was quickly righting and collecting myself. I popped up from the lumpy tar surface and started limping across."Hang on a sec- Wait" he said " Recover a minute will you?" he exclaimed. But I had a mission- total denial. It never happened. I was going to walk it off and remove myself as quickly as possible from the view of any and all witnesses. Syd if you are reading this-yes- I should've put on flats- I didn't.

Well. I wasn't REALLY bleeding and the pain, deep in the throes of "it was nothing, really" was minimal- no more than a heated throbbing. I walked crosstown chatting about EBITA and other subjects near and dear to Mr. B's heart knowing that if I distracted him by being enthralled with a riveting explanation of Sales vs. Earnings he'd know I was OK and I would actually be OK.

The sale was a bust. Really- when a $3000 dollar jacket is 70% off it's still... well, too expensive for something you wear on casual Friday so you can show off how well you dress to be leisurely. How can you relax adequately in something you cannot spill barbecue sauce on? We walked back to the office and after cleaning debris off the injured knee found a rather wide...scrape. Not so much more. Surface. A flesh wound really. Even if it was a proverbial pound of flesh wound- it was fine.

Unless you had a four day trip to an International Business Meeting in Las Vegas to go to the next day. The thing about Las Vegas, specifically the Las Vegas Strip, is that the shortest distance between 2 points is a taxi cab. Even if your destination is across the street it will take a good 45 minutes to find the crosswalk, and the overpass, and the up and down escalator and a water show, 3 come-to-Jesus preachers and 2 rent-a-date panel trucks and reach your destination. And I love to walk but with this many shiny objects in evidence walking was just too distracting- I didn't have an ice cube's chance in hell of making it ten feet in less than a millenium- oh and did I mention I was limping? Even though I wasn't sinning in Sin City and had a date arranged as soon as I got home I still found myself gawking every time I stepped out of the fantasy world of the Paris Hotel Lobby.

A word about the Paris. I have stayed at 2 Vegas Hotels other than the Paris- Caesar's and the Venetian. Somehow the Italian fantasy worlds at these mega resorts didn't work for me. It was too... not Italian- where was the smell of garlic being cooked in oil? The plump-armed Nonna encouraging you to eat- or get married? The scent of Venice slowly moldering into the canals? It just wasn't working for me. But the Paris. It was cool. Trapped as we were for 12-14 hours in windowless ballrooms listening to presentations and Powerpoint displays I made sure that each morning in the wee small hours before 7 am that I grabbed a large and delicious coffee at Le Notre and sat out in front of the hotel on a wrought iron bench under the faux verdigris arches. That 30 minutes of caffeine and Piaf gazing at the flat crystal blue sky and the miniature Arch du Triomphe made those hours a bit easier to take. I've never been to Paris but with the right music and a good cup of coffee and most essential- and a very Parisian attitude- a combination of l'aissez faire and Joie du vivre- it felt a bit French.

And I never put a bandaid on the knee. Longer skirts covered it and I told myself the air would help it heal. On the final day of the conference I had a free afternoon and lounged under the Paris's replica of the Tour du Eiffel next to the pool. Mr. B had joined me for a bit by the pool but even he got the idea that I needed some space- and to be able to pull off my cover up and not die of utter mortification by being so scantily clad in a pseudo-business environment. I remember whn I first came to the new job being worried about showing toes- 9 months later toes are ok- tits are another matter entirely.

After 4 fact and fun filled days of business meetings stretching into the 14 hours a day realm all that was left of my higher mental functions was the ability to contemplate (please forgive me) my wounded knee. While I was absorbing all that good business information my knee was developing a rather elaborate and interesting scab. As a kid I was a scab connoisseur- both in generating them and appreciating them. At eight years of age my mom sent me to school with extra bandaids because I could not resist showing off my latest creation. I was forever horrifying my friends by peeling off a band-aid and saying "LOOK". It absolutely fascinated me. How many different KINDS of scabs there were- bruises- no bruises- leaky- or not and the stuff on the little white gauze pad- AMAZING. Back then I thought it was better than any biology lesson and a guarantee that as far as the human body was concerned if you broke it- it would fix itself! It would have been great if glasses and vases could do that too- would have saved me a fair bit of time sitting in the corner thinking about what I had done.

I couldn't resist looking. The places covered by a red crust protected the broken bits. The healed places had shed the covering, revealing new skin- bright and pink and a bit angry looking. Surreptitiously I looked up- was anyone watching? I peeled a bit away ... slowly, slowly- feeling the sting when I reached a place that still needed its crisp covering.

OK- it was wierd. But I was blissfully alone and was able to go back to the time when the things my body did still amazed me. As I head to the end of my fourth decade I spend a fair bit of money on products to keep skin smooth and supple. I creak and have to shake off a bit when I sit too long with my legs crossed Indian style. Yet here I was- regenerating. Even in this later part of my life- my body screams out- there are still miraculous things I can do! And no $300 pot of creme de mere from Sephora is needed, just a little Bacitracin.

So, back from Vegas I still take a moment from the busier and busier days and peek at my scab and marvel about how life, at every stage, renews itself. And I am not as young as I was, or as old as I plan to be, but there is still some really great stuff left I can do.