Within the bad luck of: getting into an accident on the last day of biking, after 300 kilometers; my wreck (and I do mean wreck) of a face; not being able to go to Lithuania; being trapped in an ugly youth hostel-ish place with two cartons of yogurt, tap water that tastes just as bad, if not worse, than the tap water in Warsaw, no books, and Polish radio (lord preserve me) for a very, very long day...despite all this, I'm very lucky.
There could've been a car; I could've broken my nose; I could've been wearing my real glasses and not my prescription sunglasses (which snapped in half); I could've gotten a concussion; there could've been other bikes and bikers involved; I could've been the last person in the group and nobody would've missed me for a long time; the list goes on. It's strange that I was actually feeling very lucky (albeit in great shock) after it happened, thinking about how much worse it could've been.
Also, I kept focusing on little, stupid things, like "My glasses are broken!" and "Where's my baseball hat?" (I was actually thinking, that hat's traveled with me wherever I've gone, since I found it on Science Hill four years ago, damned if I'm going to lose it now!) and "Crap, insurance, insurance! I'm going to have to file papers for the insurance company! Argh!!" Despite all the frenetic pacings of my mind, I was simultaenously thanking my Buddha earlobes (where, obviously, all my luck is stored) and my Hindu god that all injuries are superficial, even if they've rendered me monstrously hideous.
I did nearly die, however, when at the hospital, Dorota said to me, "You know, you look sort of like Scarlett Johansson." I hope she was only talking about my lips. Dorota's got a bit of a mania about plump lips because her top lip is so thin (she was born with a harelip and has undergone several surgeries.) The second day, she said, "Your lips are so kissable!" My upper lip, at that point, was a very literal five times bigger than usual. I kept thinking about Dudley with the engorged tongue from the fourth Harry Potter. I also have a deep gouge/scar under my nose, that's verging (but not quite) on the infamous Hitler 'stache. Did you know there's a website dedicated to photographs of cats who have Hitler mustaches?
This morning I went to Pani Tamara's shop to buy yogurt and there were two men in there, and they said something like, "Ai! What happened?!" and so I said "rower i piasek i górka i katastrofa" (bike + sand + hill + catastrophe), and those swine said, "Taki ostra sex! Ostra sex!" Meaning hot sex. I tried to raise my eyebrows at Pani Tamara, but my forehead is all scraped up and around my eyes and nose are swollen.
I keep lamenting that nobody will want to marry me now with my disfigured face, but everybody seems to be taking the joke seriously. They say, "Oh no, your face will be fine soon." Or, "No, Lauren, you're not ugly." Jeebus, I know. But for some reason when I picture myself at 40 I am alone and happy. And taller.
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In fan-fucking-tastic news, I've been published in The CommonLine Project, edition 006. Check it out: "It Doesn't Take a Chicken to Realize"
In not so fantastic news, my Čači Vorba article was rejected, but I asked the editor at Matador for feedback and I agree with his critiques. I'm going to rewrite it and send it out again. And Čači Vorba's coming for three days of musical workshop in July; I'm totally stoked. Their recordings pale in comparison to their live music, but download free mp3's from their website here: www.caci-vorba.prv.pl. (Click on "muzyka/video.")
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