Tuesday, October 16, 2007
broken streak
Please my dear reader, allow me to make one thing clear from the beginning: I am not a graceful person. My movements will never be mistaken for those of a skilled dancer or one blessed with the propreoceptive and kinetic gifts of a great athlete.
I fall. Some might describe me as a faller. If you can fall off, on, in, or down it; well then I have doubtless already done so. Some might be tempted to correlate that with the fact that I also drink. I am something of a drinker. But at this point I must caution you, my dear reader, that as any good scientist or researcher will tell you, correlation does not imply causality. And anyway that is an issue best left for another discussion at some other time.
Streets, signs, steps, sidewalks, lawns, lots, fences, walls, holes, curbs, cliffs, rocks, hills, mountains, beaches, pools, puddles, ponds, counters, carpets, floors, and so on and so on. . . All have encountered that squishily firm sensation of my body suddenly and forcefully impacting their surface. Many of those falls involved both beer and bicycle.
Given that, I remained quite proud that throughout all my mishaps and misadventures during my almost forty one and a half years on this fair blue planet; despite my countless scrapes, scars, bruises and abrasions, one thing remained unbroken. That one thing is my bones.
Until now.
The streak is quite literally, like one of my bones, now fractured and broken.
While I am fortunate that the broken bone is more awkward and embarrassing than debilitating or disabling, it is still woefully disappointing. In moments of somber if not quite sober reflection, I am tempted to view it as a sign of perhaps my own mortality, as the invincibility of youth gives way to the inevitability of middle age.
And yes, my dear reader, the mere typing of these words is made annoying if not quite difficult by the metal splint that adorns my broken finger.
Yes, my finger.
On the exterior, the finger is purple, engorged and throbs like the member of a teen-age boy making out with his girlfriend in the backseat of his buddy's bitchin' Camaro while Def Leppard pulsates from the radio and vibrates through steamed up windows.
On the interior, and more specifically, the distal phalanx on the fourth (ring) finger of my left hand has been split nearly symmetrically asunder. I saw the x-ray. I know this to be true.
"How did this happen?" you ask yourself, as you doubtlessly are right now my dear reader, for that is a very valid question.
In a vainglorious attempt to boost my prestige I could tell you that it happened during an elite almost Herculean contest of strength and skill, or in the midst of a great battle against the minions of the New World Order. But that would be a lie.
And in reality the truth is never as glamorous and exciting as it is portrayed on television.
I clumsily smashed it between two dumbbells while working out at the local gym.
Sigh.
Oh well.
On the bright side of things, I have an opportunity to take advantage of the splint and over the next two weeks to teach myself to play some killer slide blues guitar.
If life gives you lemons. . .
|
I fall. Some might describe me as a faller. If you can fall off, on, in, or down it; well then I have doubtless already done so. Some might be tempted to correlate that with the fact that I also drink. I am something of a drinker. But at this point I must caution you, my dear reader, that as any good scientist or researcher will tell you, correlation does not imply causality. And anyway that is an issue best left for another discussion at some other time.
Streets, signs, steps, sidewalks, lawns, lots, fences, walls, holes, curbs, cliffs, rocks, hills, mountains, beaches, pools, puddles, ponds, counters, carpets, floors, and so on and so on. . . All have encountered that squishily firm sensation of my body suddenly and forcefully impacting their surface. Many of those falls involved both beer and bicycle.
Given that, I remained quite proud that throughout all my mishaps and misadventures during my almost forty one and a half years on this fair blue planet; despite my countless scrapes, scars, bruises and abrasions, one thing remained unbroken. That one thing is my bones.
Until now.
The streak is quite literally, like one of my bones, now fractured and broken.
While I am fortunate that the broken bone is more awkward and embarrassing than debilitating or disabling, it is still woefully disappointing. In moments of somber if not quite sober reflection, I am tempted to view it as a sign of perhaps my own mortality, as the invincibility of youth gives way to the inevitability of middle age.
And yes, my dear reader, the mere typing of these words is made annoying if not quite difficult by the metal splint that adorns my broken finger.
Yes, my finger.
On the exterior, the finger is purple, engorged and throbs like the member of a teen-age boy making out with his girlfriend in the backseat of his buddy's bitchin' Camaro while Def Leppard pulsates from the radio and vibrates through steamed up windows.
On the interior, and more specifically, the distal phalanx on the fourth (ring) finger of my left hand has been split nearly symmetrically asunder. I saw the x-ray. I know this to be true.
"How did this happen?" you ask yourself, as you doubtlessly are right now my dear reader, for that is a very valid question.
In a vainglorious attempt to boost my prestige I could tell you that it happened during an elite almost Herculean contest of strength and skill, or in the midst of a great battle against the minions of the New World Order. But that would be a lie.
And in reality the truth is never as glamorous and exciting as it is portrayed on television.
I clumsily smashed it between two dumbbells while working out at the local gym.
Sigh.
Oh well.
On the bright side of things, I have an opportunity to take advantage of the splint and over the next two weeks to teach myself to play some killer slide blues guitar.
If life gives you lemons. . .
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