Tough Mudder

Years ago when Mark and I played in our very first volleyball tournament together we both went to pass a serve on the first play of the game. His elbow met my eyebrow. BLOOD everywhere. I mean everywhere!!! You know how head wounds are. They bleed far worse than you’d think it should. I got a steri-strip from the first aid kit, went into the ladies room, washed out the gash (an inch long) and steri-stripped it back into place then went out and finished the tournament. Eight hours of volleyball with a steri-strip holding together a gash that should have had stitches. At the end of the tournament Mark goes, “You’re the toughest woman I know.” I didn’t argue with him because, really, he speaks the truth.

I’ve always been tough! Roll an ankle? Continue the game and ice it when I get home. Break a toe on the way to work? Gingerly put my shoe on, go to work, ice and elevate when I get home. Jamb a thumb in the middle of a game? Curse, finish the game, ice when I get home. Shoot a nail through my finger with the nail gun while building a compost bin? Curse LOUDLY, wash out the wound, and finish the project. Puncture a hole in my bladder? Curse A LOT. Heal. Move on.

I have a high pain tolerance. It has gotten me through some pretty rough patches that would likely kill a normal person.


I have a cold.

In my nose.

And my throat hurts.

And my head is pounding.

I want my mommy!




It’s the little things that’ll getcha!

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