So I cut my finger on Friday doing something I shouldn’t be doing, yard work.
I had big plans for Saturday. Plans many years in the waiting. Previous scheduling conflicts seem like a better excuse than my two hours in the ER giving me three stitches, a splint, and explicit do not use, do not bend, do not get wet instructions. One more summer has passed without my participation in the Annual Canoe Trip. (sad emoticon here)
When you think about it, my wound is pretty negligible considering the size, blade and power of the tool I was using. It’s a bigun! And I love it! If I have to do yard work, man, I want to cut some damn bushes! What’s that thing Tim Allen always said on Tool Time?
Yeah, feel the weight of the electric trimmer, hear the growl, zip, zip, zip, that’s what I’m talking about.
Until it nips you. Then I’m like, yip, yip, yip. All the way to the Emergency Room.
So at the last minute, my annual-miss-the-trip canoe partner went to work and I decided to go to the Second Annual Writers’ Block Party. Well, I hoped to go—it really depended on if I could dress myself without using, bending or getting my finger wet.
I wore a skirt (you try and button your jeans one-handed!) and drove into Elgin for the event.
All the way there, with my elbow resting on the car door handle, my hand erect (it throbs if it’s not upright), I passively-aggressively road raged passersby and thought of better excuses for my injury than the ugly, stupid, scary truth.
Maybe I was wounded in preparation for The Hunger Games 2.0. You know, the one where they draw names of middle-aged moms instead of kids. With Oprah announcing and Target as sponsor.
Knowing my potential audience, I concocted the tale of how I broke my finger catching a foul ball at Wrigley. Did you get the ball? An imaginary conversationalist asks. Yes but I had to throw it back, I’m a Sox fan.
It’s pretty obvious, even more so now, that I suffer from Chronic Fucuitous.
Perhaps I’d been testing my electric defense against the Zombie Apocalypse. It works. Seems to be able to slice through skin just fine.
I have this vision of fingerless zombies clubbing me for my brains, but I’m pretty sure I could zip through their arms—and necks—with ease.
Once I can use, bend and get my finger wet.
In the meantime, today is Dave’s birthday. I’m not flipping you off, honey, I love you.
Post Script: This blog successfully typed one-handed.