It doesn't actually hurt. It's just the shock, and the struggle, as your lungs try to find a way to expand and fill will air.
When they finally do, the rush of oxygen is intoxicating. And when you realize that none of your ribs are broken, and all the blood flows back to its normal places, well, it makes you feel alive, even as you lay there catching your breath.
Then someone kicks you in the stomach, for good measure.
* * * * *
It's not personal. It's economics. Math. A system that accommodates expansion better than it accommodates contraction. And I will get caught in the middle of it. Eventually.
Like so many people in this economy, I could become a "me too".
It won't happen like it happens to most people, though. Partly, because that's not how it works around here, and partly because I will take charge of the process and won't let it happen like that.
But that doesn't mean that I'm not still reeling a little bit from the sheer possibility.
* * * * *
I'm not inviting any of you to the pity party, as I am hoping it's short-lived and not worth the trip for you all. And I suspect the story just picks up somewhere I didn't expect it to and has a happy ending anyway. So stay tuned for the rest of the story, and pardon the choppy transition between scenes - I'll have to fire my script writer.
It has to work out. I mean, someone has to pay for the massages and manicures. Oh, and the shoes. Don't forget the shoes.
Until then, I'm going to stick with my new mantra - "I will not be a hausfrau . . . I will not be a hausfrau . . . "