As a kid, I always wanted a black eye. I got hit in the face plenty, but somehow it never produced. I realized yesterday, when I got my first ever blackie, I’ve outgrown that desire.
It all started the previous night, when my friend Greg and I were out at the Silver Dollar Bar in Cody, playing pool. We got whooped by a couple of locals, and booted off the tables, so I figured I’d teach him the two swing dancing moves I know. I ended up elbowing him in the chin. Hard.
The next day, we went climbing in the South Fork, at a route called Too Much Goose. I was following, and had reached a ledge after the crux, and was hanging out, recovering. There was a little slack in the rope, and when Greg pulled it tight, it hit my ice tool, which hit my face. Karma.
Now I have a black eye. Everyone at the ice fest seemed to think it was really impressive, but people in the rest of the world have been looking at me a little differently. My best excuse: a bar fight at the Silver Dollar.
I think I could get away with wearing dramatic eye makeup and pretending it’s my new style. Or maybe not, since the last time I wore eye makeup was for the fifth grade play.