I have a Mini-Me at work.
She is my teammate, and we have gotten along from day one. She's a lot like me but with super
powers. I used to do judo; she plays
rugby. I'd come to work with bruises and
broken bones; she comes to work with contusions and concussions. She drives like me, she drinks like me, she
swears like me, she laughs like me, and she's short just like me, too. Mini-Me, but the younger, stronger version.
This past weekend I attended a wedding. Well, not just any wedding. My son and his long-time girlfriend got
married in a beautiful ceremony at a fabulous location along the ocean on an
absolutely picture-perfect day. During
the dancing, I managed to get stepped on not once but twice by guys in big
black shoes that are part of the tuxedo rental package. It hurt at the time, but I really didn't give
it a second thought until I got home and took off my strappy heels.
There on the top of my left foot was a good sized bruise,
all red and blue and purple. I was so
proud of the bruise that I took a picture of it. I couldn't wait to get back to work on Monday
and show Mini-Me what I'd done.
Before I could send the picture to my teammate, I received a
picture text from her. It seems she was
playing rugby and was hit by one of her own players, a good clunk to the right
forehead region that swelled up almost immediately. Within hours her right eye began to shut, and
by dinner time she had a black eye that rivaled Tony Conigliaro's 1967
near-deadly shiner.
See, that's the problem with Mini-Me's: They're always
one-upping a person. All right then, but
did she break her foot in three places during randori, pop her own toe back
into place, duct tape her foot together, and go out and finish the class? No? I rest my case.
(P.S. Take it easy,
Mini-Me. I'd be lost at work without
ya.)
