In which...

... I find a band aid on my butt.

That's all. Oh? You want back story? I suppose. If it'll help you find the point of it all.

I have a yoga injury. Not Yoda, though that would make more sense, that little bastard can fight. 

My knuckles got rubbed raw on Sunday during class when I changed my form for just a few cycles through the Vinyasa (my wrists hurt from proper form 'cause I'm fat and weak) and by that night my hands looked like I'd beat the shit out of someone much weaker and fatter than me.

So being from the school of keeping my owies covered in antibiotic ointment and bandaged I went to sleep last night with my yoga battle wounds just that. I woke up this morning with one of the band aids missing. Looked around for it, kind of gross yes, but it's me and I know I'm gross. I figured it'd turn up eventually and went about my day. Dressed. Worked. Gym(med). Changed in the locker room. Worked out. Pharmacy, dinner, movie, started writing a different blog (a serious one, no less) when the urge to scratch my butt arose.

(Please see the above declaration of my grossness.)

Plus it wasn't even a real butt scratch just my cheek, I swear. And you'll never guess what I found. Yes you will because I spoiled it in the first line. Almost 24 hours that band aid had been on my left butt cheek and I was walking around completely unaware. 

Maybe I'm tired, maybe I'm slightly manic, maybe I had a shitty day and just needed an excuse to laugh so hard that I cried, all while holding a slightly used band aid, but I was, I am, I did and oh lord it felt good.