Image Courtesy of Tri-State Surgical
But, before we share our most recent exploits, let's look at some past 'beauts that cannot be ignored:
- I have broken a toe the morning of at least 50% of every party I have ever thrown. Usually in the course of cleaning the house, I will impale a toe on the metal opening of the vacuum hose, walk into an immovable object or fail to lift my foot high enough to get it over the edge of the tub. The tub wall alone has probably broken my ring finger toe (is that even a thing?) five or six times. As a result, my toes look like a lumpy, wavy collection of peanuts in the shell from all the breaks and heals. Pretty.
- I fell out of a moving car once. Just...ugh...best to leave it at that.
- I have a trick ankle that gives out on the slightest unevenness in the pavement. I once stepped on a pea sized pebble crossing Broadway and 46th street and my ankle just quit. I face planted in the road and the contents of my purse skittered into oncoming traffic. Since it was NYC, people just walked over me like a human throw rug. The same trick ankle downed me in front of Tompkins Square park, where an uneven section of sidewalk threw me down onto my knees, ripping my jeans and my knee and sending blood streaming down into my boot. Luckily, clumsy was hanging out with boozy that night and I didn't feel the wound until the AM. I slayed some Concrete Blond at Karaoke that night (Sing Sing, I am STILL sorry), in front of one drunk old lady and a Russian immigrant with an ABBA fetish.
But last night's gaffe was truly spectacular. One of those couldn't repeat it if you tried tricks that you wish someone was recording. It lays out like this...
I had just sat down in the living room after dinner with a couple of Milano cookies (mmmmm, Milano) and a glass of milk. I was about to go in on those cookies when I shifted in my seat and managed to spill milk down the front of my shirt. I got up to head toward the kitchen for some paper towels and my destructed jeans (the kind with the pre-ripped slashes and strings in them) caught on the corner of the end table and pulled it over. The amber glass urn that was sitting on top of the table went sailing in the air, crashed, and a big hunk of it came down on top of my foot. I thought it was the table hitting my foot, but when my sock filled with blood, I realized I'd been cut.
Five hours in the Emergency Room and five stitches later, I left the hospital. Not in terrible pain or even terrible embarrassment. That's the funny thing about being clumsy. At some point you lose your shame. It's similar in child birth. Initially you want a drape over your lap, but after your seventeenth internal exam amidst the sharp kick of labor pains, you'll let the janitor give you an exam if it will help get the baby out. So, hobbled and humbled, I got my first set of emergency room stitches. Let's just hope that I don't catch them on something when I go to the city this weekend. That would be embarrassing.