It's barely there, anymore, but on the middle knuckle of my pointer finger is a still-pink and puffy, half-scabbed spot from where my finger had lost an argument with a shinai. That's right: not even the noble heft of a bokken to blame, this time. Just a rattling, bending shinai. Anyway, it was nearly healed in only a couple of days, only to get infected, swell up to the point that I couldn't really bend my finger, then take another week or so to shrink down to the point that the scab catches on my pocket every time I take my wallet or phone from my pants. The picture doesn't show much, but there's not much left of it, either--just enough to annoy me, which hardly singles it out for attention.
I wasn't even going to mention the finger. Then I went for some ibuprofen before class today, and the bottle gave me pause. There was blood on my ibuprofen bottle. Nobody else has been in my house, much less messing with my ibuprofen. So it must be my blood, I reasoned. It's only a little blood, so I hadn't lost enough bodily fluids to go light-headed and fail to realize an open wound. Rather, as I held up the bottle to inspect it further, I saw my finger instead of the bottle and realized the problem was the bloody finger from a week ago. Now, bleeding on my medicine is only a small problem. Not realizing I had done so, is a slightly larger one, because of its implications regarding my overall mental health, especially given the number of times I've picked up that bottle in the last week. I'm not going to dwell on this, or anything, because I'm sure there'll be more, worse, and better to worry about the next time I get hit with a stick.
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