My loving husband seems to think I am accident-prone.
And not just prone to accidents from the usual modes like car crashes and walking into doors but accidents that come from simply living.
At the newspaper office, I came around the corner one day to collide with my manager carrying a big box computer. That put me in a back brace.
I blew out my right knee skiing — not by running into a tree or careening across an icy slope — but by tripping on a twig as I moved into the ski lift line.
I hurt my elbow carrying my computer case in and out of the office. It'll take about a year to get better, the doctors tell me.
The other night I popped my left knee when I tried to put my foot up on the chair in front of me in the theater. It's all swollen and angry.
I fell coming out of the department store one night on perfectly dry road and re-created havoc with my knee.
I routinely slip on invisible but probably wet spots in the grocery store aisle and bend my toes tripping on the carpet.
I fell out of the sled at the end of a sloping, easy run with my granddaughter and hurt the discs in my back.
There's always something that has my insurance company asking why I'm going in for physical therapy yet again and can't tell them who or what else is responsible for the mayhem. I have a pile of braces, splints, bandages and boots to show for my grace.
It's a gift, I suppose, one that manifested itself the other day when we were shopping for a birthday book for a grandchild.
I was perusing different new books and checking out the latest titles when I noticed my fingers were bleeding, threatening to destroy the store's inventory.
Marc laughed at me as he took away the offending literature.
"You'll have to add paper cut injuries to your list," he said. (He has already outlawed snow sports for me.)
I felt stupid, having once again found a way to hurt myself with otherwise benign objects, right up until the next morning when Marc was making omelets for breakfast.
All of a sudden he started to wail and shake his hand.
"Ooh, ooh, ooh," he cried, looking down at his bleeding fingers.
"What," I inquired curiously, "happened?"
He'd cut himself on an eggshell.
"How could that happen? Nobody cuts themselves with an eggshell," he asked me, shaking away the blood and pain.
I certainly wouldn't know.
3 years ago