Friday, October 14, 2011

count 'em

Sometimes I have to sit back and marvel at what a bizarre place derby has taken me to in my personal life. 

Last night I was showing The Man the bruise on my ass, because that is what derby people do.  It takes about a week for my butt bruises to show.  My thigh bruises appear after four days, arms the day after.  I'm going to write a paper one day about the time delayed presentation of minor hematomas relative to location on the body.

So, I'm showing The Man my ass and I tell him that I got the bruise during last weeks scrimmage when my jammer went through the pack on the apex, giving me a not so gentle shove/punch out of the way.  It was then that I had one of those moments of cognitive dissidence when I suddenly had a hard time believing what I was saying.  I just thought that when I was an adult I'd spend the time in the evening talking to my partner about more, well, adult things.  Politics or symphony music or taxes or something.  Not showing him the bruise on my ass I got playing a game.  On roller skates.  I suddenly felt weird and insecure about my status as a grown-up.

But then I started to feel weirder that The Man didn't feel weird about this.  So I broke down the story of my ass bruise for him in more detail.  I said, "Gingerdead Man, that's his name, punched me in the ass.  On roller skates.  Honey, some dude punched me in the ass hard enough to leave a bruise.  What do you think about that?"

I thought it worth at least a raise of an eyebrow, but apparently not.  What kind of relationship is this?!  The Man only said, with suspicious eagerness, "Yeah.  So, you got one on the other side?  Want me to check?"


I guess I'm just at a point in my life where it's actually mundane to have a guy punch me in the ass.  Obviously, it wasn't my first time.  All sorts of strange contact is made on and off the track among derby people.  Last night at practice, for instance, Runaway Pain (yep, that's her name), felt compelled to bump her pelvis into my ass repeatedly into me to clarify a rule during a ref discussion.  And then she did it again for fun.  In fact, it happens frequently enough that it's not really worth talking about.  This is what maturity looks like to me.  The closer I get to forty, the more frequently I get punched in the ass and dry humped by people I don't know well enough to be able to look them up in the phone book. 

I'm not complaining.  Better to be forty and bruised than forty and bored.  But I'm not enjoying the bruises and pain with fetish-like glee, either.  And I will say that if The Man came home after a night of having his ass punched, his groin stomped and his booty blocked, he'd have a hell of a lot to say about it and I wouldn't be allowed to just say, 'yeah,' and turn back to an episode of Glee.  I would definitely have to pull out the ice packs and sooth his battered and bruised... ego.

Fact is, when it comes to getting out there and putting my ass on the line (literally), I've got more balls than The Man.  Yes, that's weird, by the numbers alone.  This is normal here.  Is it grown-up?  Probably not.  Is it hurting anyone but me?  Well, yes, but they asked for it.

So, yes it is a bit weird how me, as a mature woman, chooses to spend her evenings.  Weird and wonderful.  Not so much for old school type people anyway.  Have I mentioned that The Man also isn't concerned that his brother hits me?


  1. We are the type when going to the hospital they ask if you have been hit and you say "Hell's yeah!" then realize how bad that sounnds. Then you say "but I deserved it" which sounds worse, then really dig yourself into a hole by going "but I hit him back..." oh dear I should just stop talking now

  2. QOTD: The closer I get to forty, the more frequently I get punched in the ass and dry humped by people I don't know well enough to be able to look them up in the phone book

    I love it. I love it. That made my day.

  3. You forgot about the sweat they leave on your body. You walk away with more DNA samples than Dexter does on any given day... And to me, that is what being forty-fuckin-five is all about. Collecting DNA samples from people I don't even know their "real" name!

    And I wouldn't trade it for any ol' talk about classical music or taxes!