Monday, January 07, 2008

Gravity made me it's bitch.

Happy New Year! Did everyone have lovely holidays, regardless of which ones they were? (me personally, I decided to celebrate Flag Day (and Flag Day Eve, of course), followed a week later by National Silk Boxers Appreciation Day.) Mine were fabulous, because they just can’t be anything but. It’s the thing about this time of the year, at least for me. Nothing can ruin it. Not even near-death falls down concrete staircases.

I happen to KNOW this.

Remember how on my last post I was working? Working on Christmas Eve, which I know NOW is a great and terrible crime against chipmunks and other small and cute critters and I should be punished should I ever do it again? Remember that? Well guess what: I was punished for it! The universe, it noticed that I was not properly contrite for my workiness, so as I was walking down the cement fire steps at lunchtime it snuck up behind me and pushed me. Down the stairs. The fire stairs that were, I think I mentioned, extremely concrete and hard and cold and HARD and un-heated and without any cushioning.

Lest you imagine me tumbling head-over-heels down the stairs, rest assured I looked much dorkier then that. I didn’t just FALL down the stairs. I tried to grab the railing. And tried. And tried, tried again, also once more, oops almost had it that time!, still no, no, still no, not that time either… I kind of wish that I’d had an out-of-body experience at that moment, because I’d have loved to see what the whole thing looked like from outside. From inside it felt like I was a cartoon character who seemed to have two thousand hands all at once, a blurry mess of unsuccessful grabbitude! Finally I DID grab the railing, with my left hand, but since I’d tumbled feet over feet down the 8 steps or so by then I had some pretty significant momentum, and so all the railing did was yank me around so that I hit the ground on my right side, arm still gripped vice-like on the (completely unhelpful!!) railing. Looking not at ALL lame or dorky or sad or feeble. Lucky me.

Once the swift downward movement had stopped (in other words, once I hit bottom) I decided to just lie there for a while – somewhere between 2 and 15 minutes – until whatever was going to be bashed, bruised and/or broken had made itself known. But here’s the even more crazy part: except for bruises some here and there I was unscathed! Scatheless! Scathe-free! I figured I’d start feeling really achy and twingy after a bit, but nothing. NOTHING! I practically skipped to my car, so giddy was I about my bulletproof-iosity! I came back after lunch and bragged about my near-death, and yet injury-free adventure. “Huzzah!!” said I, “I am IN-WINCE-ABLE!!!”

24 hours later irony ended it’s vacation a little early and spanked my cocky little rump with a case of “dang, my wrist hurts!” and almost 2 weeks later my wrist (dang) still hurts. (also I’m starting to get whiny about it.) I was forced (forced, I say!) to go to the nurse here. In retrospect it is a little stupid to refuse to seek medical check-outery given that around here one good swing of the domesticated pet of your choice would smack a doctor or nurse right in the puss. The nurse confirmed that yes, in fact, I’d “screwed it up” (pardon the technical, medical jargon-talk) and that it would take a while to fix it.

One never really appreciates one’s left wrist until it’s gone (or at least screwed up). The list of things that are apparently dependent on a working left wrist (at least for me) includes:

1. scratch dead center on my back (which, coincidentally, has itched non-stop since Christmas!)
2. take things out of the oven – my right hand does the door opening, and apparently the left hand does the out-taking. Who knew?
3. wash my butt. (You heard me.)
4. check the time. And I tried wearing my watch on the right hand – that’s just not natural! Also it’s the closest I ever came to doing the old “say, do you have time time? Why yes I do, allow me to pour this can of cold, sticky soda down my front as I tell you the time!” schtick to myself.
5. type more then 4 sentences, and so now you know why it took me a week to compile this tragic story for your blogging enjoyment.

I gave myself almost two weeks to get back up to typing speed, but it’s just gonna be one of those things that refuses to truly heal any faster then it darn well wants to. And as opposed to most rational people, who would then resign themselves to taking it arm-easy until things are better, I am going to go back to living my life as though I am completely unharmed, punctuated by periodic shouts of “Ow! Crap!” when my arm begs to differ. It’s a battle of wills, people, and I will crush my arm. Crush it completely!!!



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