“All good stories start with, ‘So! There I was…'”
I am an enigma. Put me at a formal function, slither me into a Little Black Dress, and slap some dangerously high heels on me and I’m Princess Grace of Monaco, but day to day I’m easily one of the klutziest people I know. Usually I’m at my worst around the very people I want most to impress but that, I’m beginning to learn, is probably going to be a lifetime ailment, tragic and incurable.
Besides being klutzy I’m also constantly turning up with bruises, scrapes, and sprains that I can’t only not explain but have absolutely no memory of ever acquiring. Some scars are well documented (many thanks Dad for the miraculous aim that managed to flick a chicken pock off the tip of my nose leaving me with a permanent dent in it) and mundane even if they have led to perplexing questions for me. How have I managed to survive crocodile and shark infested waters, spelunking near-death-experiences, rock climbing on razor sharp lava rocks, and weekly wrestling with three younger siblings for 18 years only to have no cool scars to show from it! To rub salt in the wound – pun! – my right wrist has a scratch (cat, nothing self inflicted), my left forearm has a small circular scar (biopsy, nothing self inflicted), and my right foot has a scar on the bottom of it (tree stabbing, nothing self inflicted unless you count tripping). Not a single good story to be had!
My only semi-funny story about an injury is the time I once managed to nearly slice the tip off my finger off while cutting an orange. I didn’t even feel it until I glanced down.
“Dang it. Dad, I’ve – whoa…”
“You alright?” Dad asked. Pause. “Are you going into shock?!”
I had to lie on the floor with my hand above my head until the bleeding stopped while Dad just laughed at my outraged, and woozy, tirade about how I couldn’t be in shock.
In spite of this the only bone I ever “broke” was my pinky finger, which I got galloping down the hall after an errant little brother and accidently smacking my hand against a wall in surprise when a parental figure yelled at me. Even then I was too hyper for the plaster casts they kept putting me in and after a couple of those, the perturbed doctor wrapped my arm to the elbow in fiberglass to keep me from doing further damage. Still not an impressive injury.
As I sit writing this I am nursing a foot that I twisted slightly while running, puzzling over the creation of three bruises on my legs, and debating whether or not to go skating with J., which invariably ends with sprains.