Knuckleball

21 Sep

Let me tell you why I suck.

As you likely did not notice until now (don’t lie about it), I have been completely MIA this week. It’s probably somewhat impossible to even notice considering I have been less than consistent with my posting schedule, but this time around my absence has been less about my lack of having my life together and more about the actual physical dismemberment of one of my appendages.

I will now set the scene for … the massacre of my most emotionally significant and precious individual of the 10 fingers I currently own.

On a perfect Saturday afternoon, a pure example of breezy Chicagoan Fall days, I celebrated the masterful anniversary of JC’s grandfather’s 90 years on the planet. Picnic sandwiches, yard games, museum tours — the works. Pretty soon the football wielding boys started bombing touchdown passes, running and jumping to catch them. Thanks to the “I can do that, too” attitude etched upon me since birth (thanks, Mom & Dad), I started in on a perfectly innocent game of catch with John. It was not long before my “bread basket catch” came under intense criticism. Whereas most folks [wisely] create a little target with their hands where an incoming ball would fit snugly, I curl my fingers under as though anticipating a flying baby will land in my arms.

Curled in fingers meeting speeding bullet ball equals intensely jammed finger. Three days later, I discover this equals fractured, broken-in-half finger. And, soon to be, surgically operated upon finger.

I know what you’re thinking. You are asking yourself, isn’t this just a smidge dramatic? Like, it’s a finger. But seriously, do you know how many questions the limited use of one hand raises? Like, how does washing one’s hands work? Does one let the splinted finger get wet? Does one wash just one hand? Does one wash one hand, and awkwardly pat down the not-wounded fingers on the maimed hand?

And so forth.

In addition, on the day of the infraction, I actually continued into the evening sans medical care, and in fact took a raucous game  of “Celebrity” into extra innings when I impromptu acted out the “Jack, I’m flying!!” scene from Titanic, using my husband as a prop, after drawing “Leonardo DiCaprio” from the pot. This is happening at the raw hour of 4am, no less.

So that is my story. And I am now having surgery Monday. And I typed this post with 9 fingers

… twice.

On a separate, much much happier note, I am in Baltimore to visit my dear friend Annie (Hi Ging!), and I’m hanging out at FitBloggin12 while I’m here. So if you’re here too, find me! Woohoo!

Alright, your turn(s). What’s the dumbest injury you’ve suffered?

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