Pole cat

I determined, 18 hours ago, that I could not be famous. Not due to lack of ability or amazing talent *ahem*, but for the pure simple, undeniable physiological reason that...I'm a bruiser.

Lord knows why but, despite my staunch belief in high standards of mental stimulation, I succumb to shit journalism on a regular basis (celebrity buzz mostly). With such regularity, in fact, it's like I'm mainlining Metamucil. While undertaking such mind-dumbing research with the senseless commitment of a crow pecking at a shiny scrap in the middle of the road, I noticed a common trait in all these covertly taken snapshots: perfection.

A scratch, scabbed-over wound or blue-hued bruise were all but impossible to find amongst the star-studded shots. Then there's me. I walk to the fridge to refresh my drink and stumble back to the couch, knee nicked from whacking the coffee table and arm scratched by a piece of plastic jutting from the fridge when I unsuspectingly reached into its vicious mouth. So this begs the question: What are these people doing? Do they sit, frozen in fear, knowing that one false move could mar their blemish-free epidermis and lower their box-office draw? Is that the real reason behind their personal assistant's existence? Not laziness or an over-inflated sense of entitlement as we'd believe, but because they are victims of their own stature, forced to use daily stand-ins for life's blows? "Man, you should see poor Jennifer Aniston's assistant--bruises all over the girl! You'd think she was beaten for buying Aquafina instead of a SmartWater!"

This weekend I also learned that stripper is not in my career cards. And definitely not, as I established, a famous one. Mid-Saturday morning hike, following a brief spin on a pole the night before (another story for another time), I halted and looked in horror at the now solid blue of my inner left leg. My mind raced. Had I brushed against a blue-painted post? Cut off circulation to my leg? Squashed a smurf?

No.
No.
And only that one time I did 'shrooms.

It was seven bruises merging into one giant representation of why I am not a dancer by trade. Not about to be defeated by a pole of any sort, one week later I try my hand with one of the fishing variety. Small and wielding to my desires, this was one pole I would defeat. Until a fish bit. At which point the rod spurred its butt into my left hip, bracing against the halibut on the line, my face melting into an interpretation of Munch's "The Scream" as my reeling arm generated enough heat to melt the butter I'd later cook the fish in. I knew before even landing the damn creature that my capillaries were bursting under my skin, hatching battle plans to launch the impending bruise that would consume my left side.

Two nights later, a sauced yet curious gent at the bar inquired if I smoked pole. I looked him square in the eye and said that I would not, in no uncertain terms, touch any pole, lest of all with a ten foot pole, lest of all consider smoking it. God only knows what that would bruise.