A couple of nights ago I woke myself up by running into the corner of a doorway. It made an incredibly loud noise and was followed by lots of blood coming from a 2-inch vertical cut above my left eyebrow. Darrin thought Adam, who sleeps in the room above us, had fallen out of bed. He suggested that next time I'm up, I turn on the lights. Good idea.
I walk in my sleep. It's something I've done throughout adolescence and into my early twenties. Lately it's become a fairly unusual occurrence, though. I usually do something which would cause endless delight for AtP's funny bone (like rearranging furniture or "reading" on the lawn when it's pitch black outside), but I've never injured myself before.
I went into the bathroom and pulled the edges of the cut apart, determined that it probably should be stitched, pushed the edges back together, cleaned the cut, put on a bandage and went back to bed. No way was I going to the emergency room and try to explain how I ran into a doorway hard enough to split my head open, in my sleep.
Today I have a thin red line where the cut was, surrounded by a faint pink skin irritation because I'm allergic to bandage adhesive. No doubt I'll have a lovely scar there.
It's okay. Women my age never have to worry about looking good.