I was always a rather uncoordinated child. A klutz, if you will. The family joke seems to be that I was so clumsy, I would trip over patterns in the carpet. I think they suspect that I still would.
So it will probably come as no surprise to my family that on Monday night, five minutes before I was due to leave for the fireworks party, I slammed my finger in my bedroom door.
I'm at a loss to know how I only slammed one finger, and I'm certainly no physicist, but I imagine it has something to do with the vacuum created by my half-open bedroom window and the ceiling fan that was whirring only very slowly. Those elements dangerously combined to create enough suction to slam my bedroom door really hard. And because I didn't move my finger out of the way fast enough, it came an absolute cropper.
So today my middle finger on my left hand is swollen, and the nail is a deliciously gothic shade of purple/black. And if you're a touch-typist like me, you'll appreciate how uncomfortable it is to type Es, Ds, and Cs. Oh man.
The common remedy suggested by the amateur medical professionals around here seems to be to have it lanced with a hot needle and spurt blood everywhere in the process. Yeah, right. Of course that was also the advice of Courtney's aunt Gail, who is an actual doctor, but I pretended that she was under the influence of Courtney's cocktails at the time she said it. BAH, scaremongers.
[But just between you and me, if my finger keeps feeling the way it does today, I may have to visit a health care expert and demand that they administer some serious anaesthetic before beginning the lancing process. Surely they would not expect me to be conscious for such a heinous procedure?]