I’m not a very adroit person. I have terrible balance, can’t dance unless I’ve been drinking and I’m exceptionally unobservant. While I’ve been fortunate enough to avoid really serious injury so far, I can’t help but feel it’s only a matter of time. Some highlights:
At age four or so, I climb up on a chair and brace my feet against the back of the chair and my hands against a table. The chair falls backwards and I fly back into the kitchen counter. Five stitches to the back of my head.
I’m about five and my cousin and I are dancing in her living room. I somehow flip over the couch from behind and smash my forehead against a coffee table. It bleeds.
In grade 5, we’re all out on the playground in the winter time. The playground is covered in wood chips to prevent injuries from falling off of the playground equipment. It does not, however, prevent injuries caused by tripping on a patch of ice and sliding knees first into one of said woodchips. Three stitches.
Grade 9 Phys. Ed, my friend and I are making a slow walking circuit around the gymnasium while we’re waiting for class to begin. Several boys are playing basketball and the ball is accidentally thrown toward me. I instinctively reach out to grab it, forgetting in the heat of the moment that I have no athletic ability. My right ring finger is sprained, although I don’t realize this for awhile so it gets nice and swollen and stiff.
Grade 10 Phys. Ed, we’re playing Capture the Flag with the Grade 12 Leadership class. I reach out to tag a boy running by, driving the same ring finger into his neck. It’s sprained again, although I remember the feeling from before and ice it quickly.
The summer before Grade 12, my dad sends me to the store for a bag of ice. I pull out of the parking lot of the convenience store but my RIGHT RING FINGER somehow catches on the steering wheel. I feel a little shift, and sure enough, it’s sprained. I blame my dad.
In May of 2007, I return from a trip with a brand new lucky four leaf clover tattoo on my right foot. Mother’s Day is approaching, so I offer to clean and wash my mother’s car for her. As I round the corner of the house in my flipflops, showing off my bright beautiful tattoo to the world, I catch my right baby toe on a (big, red, stationary) lawnmower. It stays nice and broken for a good long while, helped by the fact that I catch the same toe on someone’s bookbag while walking down the aisle in a class a couple of weeks later.
Last week, I woke up and my left middle finger was sprained. Um, okay. I guess I must have rolled over onto it.
None of these injuries are major. I don’t get major injuries. I get minor injuries that are made oh so much worse by the hopeless embarassment I feel when someone asks me what happened to my foot or why my finger is taped. So, share your ignoble stories of idiot injuries and maybe we can all feel a little better about ourselves! Just, y’know, don’t hurt yourself.