How I Keep Injuring Myself in Progressively Lamer Ways

Someone gave me a diary when I was about six, and all through elementary school I would unlock it once a year or so to write another variation on “My brother is anoeeing when he trys to play with my freinds.”

Shortly after the entry on a possible monster with bloody eyes in the church basement, there’s a whole page dedicated to “I want a Broken arm or fott please.” This sentiment was inspired by numerous classmates who, unlike me, were awesome enough to arrive at school with day-glo casts for weeks at a stretch.

Broken limbs didn’t just get you special permission to sit in the rocking chair for story time; they also proved that you led a life of incredible daring.

I could not compete.

My childhood lack of grievous bodily harm has matured into a lifelong talent for injuring myself in spectacularly undramatic ways. I still get hurt occasionally; I just do it in the least interesting manner possible.

A Few Examples:

• I grew really fast one summer in middle school, which made my legs hurt a lot. I also spent half of 7th grade limping due to not damaging my knee in any discernable way.
• In high school I developed an ingrown toenail, and then I contracted a case of Persistent Wrist Pain Caused by Nothing.
• In college I strained my shoulder by reaching too enthusiastically for a salt shaker, and one morning I was physically unable to get out of bed because I had coughed all night and worn out my core muscles.

Given this history, I wasn’t too concerned a couple of weeks ago when my right arm developed a sudden enthusiasm for random, stabbing pains. Since I could still scoop ice cream, the problem wasn’t seriously affecting my way of life.

Pretty soon, though, my shoulder wouldn’t rotate much without expressing its rage. I started feeling like a poorly designed action figure—one where you try to activate the Kung Fu Grip, but his arm won’t come back all the way because his veiny bicep collides with his rippling pecs.

After a few days of using my left arm for everything, that hand started to hurt, too. A small part of my brain acknowledged what was logically happening, but the rest of it was busy panicking.

Finally, I woke up to a right arm that couldn’t even reach my face and the firm belief that every movement was sawing away at permanent nerve damage. My roommate found me on my bed waiting for the clinic to open, whimpering quietly and imagining the worst possible things that could happen.

When you arrive at Urgent Care with a case of “my arm hurts,” they smirk and send you to sit next to “I have the sniffles” for a couple of hours. My roommate sat patiently while I talked determinedly at her about anything except how I was probably dying.

When my frothing anxiety and I finally got to see the doctor, he revealed that I had an acute attack of tendinitis caused by something thrilling like typing wrong. In retrospect, I don’t know why I was worried. It’s probably not physically possible for me to be injured in any interesting and dramatic way. I’ve never even had strep throat—I’ve just had a lot of cases of, “Oops, never mind, it turns out that’s just another cold.”

I ended up with a sling, some low-end drugs, and a diagram of goofy-looking rotator cuff exercises.

This episode has been the crowning achievement of my lame injury history so far. I had an immediate visual representation of my suffering, but nothing good to back it up when people asked what happened.

I wore the sling for the better part of a week, and I spent most of that time trying to come up with a better story.

Also, it turns out that tendinitis sticks around for quite a while once you develop it. This means that I’m still putting the sling back on about once a week, and all the same sympathetically eager questions crop up again.

(P.S. If you were naming an affliction of the tendons, wouldn’t you spell it “tendonitis”? So would I.)

Promises, Promises

For part of last week and most of the weekend, I was unable to draw or type with my right hand. I decided not to spend that time producing an array of these:

You’re welcome.

Anyway, now that I have my manual dexterity back, I’m using all of it to move to a new apartment this week. Rarely has such creative power been focused on which spatula to pack first.

Provided that we get the internet connected in short order, I should be back next week for the story of what happened to my arm, or “How I Keep Injuring Myself in Progressively Lamer Ways.”

Who Do You Think You Are?

As you may remember, I am the local receptionist for a large nonprofit organization. This job does not specifically require me to recognize familiar faces, but that skill would be really helpful.

I know that a lot of the world has trouble with names and faces, but since I like to feel special, I prefer to equate my problem with a bona fide perceptual handicap. As an added benefit, this interpretation relieves me of the responsibility to do anything about it besides think up plausible-sounding explanations.

In this battle over identification, sunglasses fight me the hardest. They work just like those black censor bars on incriminating photographs—if I can’t see your eyes, I don’t know you.

This may be why I never remember much about jazz, blues, or Edith Head.

Things That Seem Like a Good Idea at First

Bubble Baths

People take luxurious baths on TV all the time, and it looks so relaxing and delightful. It’s like having your own personal hot tub. This will be amazing! Also, people keep giving you scented salts and bottles of fancy lady bubble stuff, and the cabinet under the sink is getting full.

The initial bubble stage is indeed pretty fabulous.

Eventually, though, you come to realize that you are lounging in a tank of lukewarm water that was recently occupied by your pre-bathing self.

Face Painting

Welcome to the state fair! Just look at all the little children full of joy and excitement. You would be that happy, too, if someone made you look like Spiderman!

More Cake

Cake itself is, obviously, an unconditionally good idea. The problem arrives when additional cake comes into play.

The human brain’s primal quest more frosting is, tragically, much more powerful than the human gag reflex’s capacity for refusing it.

Be Prepared

This is a situpon.

It’s a seat cushion made from a slab of foam rubber, wrapped in vinyl and laced around the edges. They are a convenient camp craft for uncoordinated Girl Scouts, as well as a buffer between dry butts and the wet log seating at the Friendship Fire Circle.

My own situpon sparkles with second-grade elegance, mostly in the form of rainbow yarn. It’s just a shame that the Lisa Frank stickers peeled off. I went in search of it at my parents’ house yesterday because I am greatly in need of something to sit upon. (Everybody now: “Oh, I get it!”)

I am currently sharing my car with a transportationally-challenged friend. It gets pretty hot in there because of August, and by the time I take over, the plush driver’s seat has absorbed a fair amount of butt-sweat. I do not want to wick it up. I know that a clean, honest little rump puddle can’t hurt me, but that knowledge does not make me more enthusiastic about secondhand moisture.

Luckily my scouting days taught me to be prepared, and also I can count on my mother never to throw anything away.

The trouble with seeking my situpon is that I can picture storing it pretty much anywhere. It’s like one of those hypothetical devices for remembering prepositions.

I am sitting on the thing right now, and I’m still thinking of places to look for it. I also feel like singing a few verses of “Flicker of the Campfire.”

Planes, Names, and Automobiles

I call myself weird pet names when I get anxious. This habit has given me a new understanding of the term “pet name”—I’m starting to feel like my own puppy.

This is a great way to draw attention to yourself in airports. Of course, you can accomplish the same end by being the only person with a cowboy hat at both the Albuquerque and Atlanta ends of your flight. By the end of my trip, I had accumulated one of these…

…and one of these…

…and one of these:

I also had zero of these:

When I reached the rental car counter in Atlanta, I was firmly reassuring my canine self.

Then it was time for the nerve-wracking process of learning a new grown-up skill. I fumbled for cards and papers, knowing that any minute I would do something wrong, they would realize I wasn’t responsible enough to trust with their vehicle, and I would have no way to get to South Carolina.

As it turned out, my cover held, and I got to borrow a nice, gold Elantra. I even brought it back without any dents punched in it from the time the alarm went off all day next to some kind people’s tent.

At the outset I asked how to return the vehicle, and “You just drive it in!” seemed like a thorough response. The agent did not mention the magical secret labyrinth of steps, including counterintuitive stuff like parking in the middle of a traffic lane to collect your luggage. Instead, I ended up at the center of a honking and angry-flagger-stick-pointing tempest until I figured out the code. Thank goodness I’m so easy to train.

Anyway, I’ve successfully added Car Rental and Return to my list of grown-up abilities. After an adequate recovery interval, I may try to tackle another item.

It's My Party

By the time most of you are reading this, it’s already my birthday. Actually, it’s probably months past my birthday and you are delving into my archives because I’ve become an overnight viral sensation whose every word is like platinum honey from the petals of a fragrant orchid.

I’m turning 25, which I plan to celebrate by exercising my new legal ability to rent a car. This age—which also entitles me to run for the House of Representatives—is pretty much the last of the privilege-granting birthdays until I turn 50 and get to join my local senior center (Light Yoga Thursdays, anyone?). I don’t really intend to become a senator (30) or run for president (35), so it’s going to be a long, arid stretch to 50 without earning any further practical, age-based rights.

As you may have divined, I’m also celebrating by not writing a real post this week—you know, the kind that requires effort. Instead, I’m going on a short vacation (see above, re: car). There will be hippies, though, so this basically guarantees a topic for next week.

Also, I plan to eat one of these:

(I think this picture is from Steak ’n Shake, but the sundae of my dreams comes from the 66 Diner here in Albuquerque.)

There’s no better birthday present than a stepping stone on the journey toward diabetes.

Anyway, if you’re looking for something funny this week, I strongly recommend the following video, which is (SPOILER ALERT) not related to the rest of this post.