This photo, circa 1992, features an 11-year-old me, halfway up the aptly-named Blood Mountain in Georgia. You can tell from my expression how delighted I was to participate in this particular family outing. (My little sister’s tired, yet pleasant smile reveals the difference in our personalities—namely that Amanda represses her anxiety, while I tell it like it is.)
Well, it’s been one of those weeks for me, as I’ve been battling pinkeye...yes, pinkeye...for the last four days, along with a boatload of work related to book edits and blog posts for next week.So I spent a good part of yesterday in the exact same pose as you see above, only with swollen, crusty eyes, slightly better hair, and a more robust vocabulary from which to bemoan my oppression.
Dan, my consummate rock and encourager, could only respond with, “Pinkeye? Don’t little kids get pinkeye? Did you put poop in your eye or something?”
Yes, Dan. I pooped in my eye. That’s exactly what happened.
[Note: According to WebMd, it is entirely possible to get pinkeye from something other than poop. I have thus diagnosed myself with allergy-induced conjunctivitis brought on by the Memorial Day cleaning spree in which I vacuumed under our bed for the first time since August of 2008 (according to the church bulletin I found there)....that, or eye and/or lung and/or bladder cancer—WebMd offers lots of options.]
All this to say, I don’t really have a post for you to read today—just a warning never to take your kids to Blood Mountain or vacuum underneath your bed. (If you’re looking for a blogger who could turn this story into something poetic and edifying, set to inspirational music, Ann Voskamp's your girl.)
...And yes, that’s a fanny pack I’m wearing. You know you had one too.
Had any Blood Mountain moments recently?
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