Invincible Me

I'm hurt.

Again.

I flew in from a conference really late and my mom was gracious enough to pick me up and take me to my husband's truck- which is not a little truck.  I picked up my bag, which was ounces shy of being 50 pounds, pulled it up to my chest and tossed it across the cab- like it wasn't more than 1/3 my body weight.  And 133-138 depending on what I've eaten,  to save you the math. I know, right?

Almost immediately it hurt.  You know how sometimes it takes a minute, kinda settles in before you feel it? And other times, like this, it's almost instant. A sting you know will be significant.

So I drove the 45 minutes to our house trying to ignore it.  That's never actually worked for me, ever, but it's always my first line of defense - pretend it doesn't hurt, maybe it really won't.

And it's funny because that's almost always how I get hurt- it's not clumsiness or carelessness- it's my belief, my false belief, that I don't have limitations. It's not that I believe I can do everything, I just don't ever believe I can't. Invincible Amber - capable of anything and everything and adored by all. And I'm always, without fail, kinda shocked when I discover it's not true.

Don't worry, it's not an indication of low self-esteem for me to realize I'm not perfect. Because I've been told multiple times the past few weeks that I "sell myself short". Sell myself short? I don't even know what that means. I mean, I know what it means but what does it mean?

I kinda wonder if that's more a reflection of how they feel about me then how I feel about myself. I picture a slick-haired car salesman in a cheap suit - Heeey kid, don't sell yourself short! *wink, wink as he pats you on the back. And then, only later, do you discover he's actually just slapped a clearance sticker on you. Right, don't sell yourself short - let me do that for you! How bout I plan to just not sell myself at all.

I was on the couch with my legs plopped over the edge (because that position hurt less than any other), reading a book when my husband came home. He immediately started kinda cleaning up. But not the kind of cleaning up where he's really cleaning up - you know, the exaggerated kind of cleaning up that is meant to illustrate that I should have cleaned up. Then I heard a few kitchen cabinets close a little too hard and he yelled out "What's for dinner?", which is code for get off your ass and make dinner.

So I peeled myself off the couch and made my way into the kitchen. Cue exasperated look at the kitchen sink. A kitchen sink full of dirty dishes. Dirty dishes that were there when I arrived home. Not one of which belonged to me or was dirtied under my direction. But never mind small details. We've got...dirty dishes! Oh, the horror!

"You've been home all day."  It wasn't a statement or a question - just kinda an accusation. Guilty, you got me, totally guilty - I have, indeed, been home all day. And all I could do was laugh - at the pure silliness of all of it.

Of course, then I pulled myself together and got to work. Because hurt or not, girls like me don't stay down too long. The Invincible Amber mantra: suck it up, roll on and always, always wear that smile.