The Good, The Bad, and the Clumsy

Yesterday, I was putting back an 8 pound dumbbell into the rack o’ dumbbells at the gym.  I didn’t want to drop it down all the way into the slot of the rack, so I lowered it and then pulled my hand out so it would drop only the last few inches and therefore not make a colossal racket which would cause everyone to stare at me.  Only, I didn’t pull my entire hand out of the way, and the weight came crashing down on the top-knuckle portion of the middle finger of my right hand.  Ow.  Seriously, ow.  It didn’t look like anything had happened, there was no blood or immediate bruising, but it was a pain on par with the time I ended up in the emergency room because my gall bladder was threatening to explode.  I didn’t cry out or say anything, and in fact I continued on with my workout, albeit not using my middle finger to do any weight bearing work while holding heavy things.   

After the gym, I went directly to a friend’s house where, in the 30 minutes between rainstorms, I played in her pool with our families.  I still felt the steady pulsing of ow-ow-ow-ow-ow and looked down and discovered that the top of my favorite right-handed finger was roughly the size and color of an eggplant.  The skin was stretched so taughtly over the swelling that it threatened to explode.  I got a very clear visual of this in my head, hearing Scotty from Star Trek saying, “She can’t stand the strain!” and picturing my face and chest being splattered as I watched it, only to see a white, cartoon-like bone sticking out of the top of the peeled back, charred flesh.  Fortunately, that never happened. 

It still looks much the same, and feels much the same, and trust me, typing this without using the end of that finger is quite the challenge, as was putting on my shoes and buttoning my pants.  What I really need is a medical leech to suck out some of the swelling, but I’m too embarrassed to call my doctor and ask if she has access to any, and too icked out to go down to the creek to see if I can find one. 

I am prone to stupid injuries like this one.  The frequency probably explains my fairly high tolerance to pain.  Not too long ago I kicked the leg of my dresser while foolishly attempting to walk across my bedroom first thing in the morning without the aid of coffee.  My fourth toe on my left foot was impressively colored for two weeks.  I bound it up with tape not so much for any medical reason but more to disguise it, as this is sandal season, and it hurt to wear shoes with actual toe coverings.  I have a deep scar on the second knuckle of my left hand which occurred when I was a young homeowner and trying to pry out the old nasty caulking in my bathtub with a pocketknife, only to have it slip and slash my hand open.  There is a discolored patch on my right shin where I walked directly into a rowing machine at the gym many years (and many gyms) ago.  There is a scar on my left thumb from back in college when I was slicing a bagel and instead sliced my thumb.  When I was seven I broke my arm on the monkey bars (back when playgrounds were made out of blistering silver steel with concrete underneath) when I was more concerned with ensuring that my mother was watching me than actually holding on to the bar from which I was dangling. 

None of these injuries are cool, and none of them were accomplished doing cool things.  The closest that comes is the giant skin-peeling abrasion I had for several months on my left calf which came when I drove our jet ski directly into the dock.  The things that normally hurt people don’t hurt me.  I have been in two accidents in which my car was totaled.  In one, I received no injuries whatsoever.  In the other, which occurred when I was six months pregnant with my son, my pregnancy-related back problems suddenly ceased when the impact from the wreck knocked whatever was out of place back into place.  I water ski without pain.  I have gone scuba diving in foreign countries with rented equipment with sharks and barracuda and sting rays without incident.  I even drank the water in Mexico and laughed in Montezuma’s face. 

Yesterday’s story would be much cooler if it were an 80 pound weight.  When I cut my knuckle in the Great Caulking Incident, when they asked, I would look at people knowingly and say, “Well, what can I say?  I’d had a few beers and she was messing with my date.”  Then I’d laugh and tell the truth because the fact is that when push comes to shove I’d rather be funny than cool, I don’t like beer or barfights, and I have learned that if I want to laugh most often, I need to laugh at myself, because my spazziness provides the best material.   

I remember being about ten years old and getting dressed up for something or another.  I looked down at my legs, and saw my knees and shins covered in scabs and bruises.  I remember wondering when I’d ever be old enough to have non-scabby, pretty legs.

 I’m still waiting.