I had meant to sit down tonight and write an amusing story about all the cool stuff I've seen over the last couple of weeks: Hypospadias repair! White matter degeneration! Traumatic amputations! Wife of prominent politician with major paranoid fugue episode! Person run over by truck! Talking to a dude in X-ray who got run over by truck!
But instead, I find myself musing on feeling stabby.
I feel stabby because, as I should've known, the curse of Shared DNA has hit yet again.
My Beloved Sister is seven years my senior. I've been able to watch and learn as she goes through various life stages. Up to now, the educational value of this exercise has been borne out in my choosing entirely new ways to humiliate myself, worry our parents, or annoy others. I never knew that I would be finding new ways to be clumsy as well.
See, MBS went through a clumsy stage. I believe it was when she was about my age that she either got poison ivy all over her body after wrenching her back, or when she fell off a stepladder and narrowly missed the window. Or maybe it was when she nearly shattered her cheekbone in the bathtub. (I can't recall; the stories are many and my brain cells are few.) Either way, I had plenty of warning that That Clumsy Stage would soon be happening to me.
I figured stepping on a needle was an accident that could happen to anybody. Right? Right.
Not so much stepping on a needle and then, two weeks later, getting sesamoiditis in the very same foot. The two are not connected. The sesamoiditis and my tipping over and bonking myself on the head in the shower, however, are. As is the attempt to recover from bonking myself on the head in the shower and thus allowing the handheld shower head to turn wrong-way-up, spraying the ceiling of the bathroom and all of the bathroom's fixtures and floor with hot water.
Chef Boy, in answer to my desperate pleas (because sesamoiditis really fucking hurts a lot, as in the worst pain I've ever had) brought beer over. He did not go into the bathroom. He'll read this later, so the jig will be up, but it'll be up after he's gone home and I've barred the door so that the concerned officers of the law he will send for a home check will not be able to get in.
Meanwhile, I'm going to limp to the kitchen and get an ice pack.
Moral of this story? Don't get sesamoiditis. And if you do, don't be clumsy into the bargain.