Subtitle: Utterly stupid ways in which I have broken bones
Ok. I'm completely ensconced in editing this month.
Editing takes any creativity I may have towards other projects, sucks it down with a shot of whiskey, then spits it back out and laughs at me. Because, oh no. I cannot write anything reasonable while editing something else. It's too all-consuming. My strange little Frankenstein-girl-character? She's taken over my brain.
So now that you know that...you should also know: I can only edit so much. Sometimes I need to blindly generate content. So here's what's on my mind this weekend.
Last week, I broke my tailbone. My coccyx (which is such a better word than tailbone, except for the part of tailbone that includes "tail" and "bone"...wow...they both sound kind of dirty).
And all I can say is...ouch.
But it got me remembering some really ridiculous ways in which I've broken bones. Unsurprisingly, I've decided to share these stories here. On my writing/professional blog.
Because of course.
Fifth Grade. During recess every day, boys and girls organized themselves into a grade-level-wide game of tag. Boys vs. girls. One gender was It, and the other had to run for their lives.
On this particular day, we girls were It.
I was fast, but not the fastest. Nick M. was the fastest kid in our grade, and everybody knew it. Each Field Day, he'd take the blue ribbon for the 50 Yard Dash.
I wasn't the fastest, but even then I had some stamina, foreshadowing of a future as a (bad) runner.
On this particular day, I'd zeroed in on Nick M. I was hot on his trail, and I was going to catch him.
Really! I swear!
I closed in, my chest heaving and my legs cramping. I got closer and closer.
Finally, I stretched out my hand, ready to tag him. I could almost feel the soft cotton of his t-shirt in my fingers, I was so close.
And then his foot kicked up behind him, caught my middle finger right in the center, and cracked the bone through.
And I spent the next few weeks happily flipping off the world with my splinted middle finger.
Sophomore Year of college. I played lacrosse. I was terrible, but still. I did it. Never scored a goal in a game, never even came close. The one time I scored in practice, the whole team stopped and stared at me. Did she really just do that? Well, guess what...I did.
Anyway, it was getting on towards the end of the season, and we were warming up for a game. My friend Tina and I were practicing "checking" each other, which really means we were clanging our lacrosse sticks together like two kids playing swords.
I stopped paying attention for a second, distracted by a flower or a random piece of grass, and my index finger got in between the two crashing sticks.
The bone cracked through. All because of a flower or a random piece of grass.
Five or six years ago. I had bronchitis. I thought I was on the mend.
I had a coughing fit outside my mother-in-law's house.
For a second, I thought I was going to die, I was coughing so hard. But I didn't die.
Instead? I cracked a rib on the left side of my body.
When I went to the same doctor who had treated my bronchitis, to see why the left side of my body hurt so bad, he laughed at me.
"Didn't I give you cough medicine?" he said.
Then, "No way did you break a rib coughing. You're a young, healthy girl. I bet you fifty dollars you don't have a broken rib."
I should have taken that bet. I'd have come away from that office visit fifty dollars richer.
That was the most painful of my breaks, thus far. I couldn't sleep on my left side for weeks. Sneezing was an exercise in severe torture, matched only by sneezing-post-c-section a couple years later.
Last week. I was home sick from work, nursing a migraine. I felt better, so I ran some errands, trying to keep Charles and Zoe from having to run them on their way home...in the pouring-down rain.
Did I mention the rain? Yeah, it was raining. A lot.
I wore an old, treadless pair of Old Navy rubber flip flops because, well, why wouldn't I, right? They seemed perfectly reasonable rainstorm footwear, don't you think?
I'd already discovered that, when wet, these particular flip flops had a tendency to get ice-slick on the floor of my garage. I told myself, over and over again, to be careful.
And still, when I pulled a box out of the back of our Jeep, my feet flew up into the air in front of me. I'm sort of happy I was holding the box - it kept me from placing either of my hands back to catch my fall, which would have probably resulted in a severely busted wrist or two. That would have cramped my writing style...
As it was, I took the brunt of the fall on my ass. Literally. The shock of impact kept me on the ground for a few minutes, thinking, "I've fallen...and I can't get up."
Suddenly those Life Alert commercials didn't seem so trite.
I haven't been to the doctor for this one. I just...don't want to pay for an x-ray when the treatment of a broken coccyx is non-existant.
But here are some awesome things I've learned about broken tailbones/coccyxeseses...
1. Don't sit on the back side of your butt. Just...don't. You won't like what happens when you do. You just may yowl.
2. Don't carry your 42+ pound kid into the ocean to play in the waves. Seriously. Don't. You'll try to jump or kick your feet while weighted down, and a wave will crash over both of you, and then you'll limp, very pitifully, back to the sand, tail(bone) between your legs.
3. When you have your neighbor's 3 year old kid on your lap and you're sitting on a beach chair on your patio, and a firework randomly shoots off and flies directly under your chair, get the hell out of there, because that's what you need to do. But it's gonna hurt, that whole jumping-up-while-holding-a-terrified-child thing. It's really gonna effing hurt.
So. What does this post mean? Absolutely nothing. But...some advice? Don't break your ribs or your tailbone/coccyx. Just don't.
Trust me on this one, ok?