I get injured a lot. Probably every day if I’m being honest. Between paper cuts, falls, bone breaks, scratches, bruises, mosquito bites and everything in between, not a single week goes by where I don’t require some kind of remedy. I am the person who gets hurt standing still. I am the person who falls flat on their face just walking down the street. I’ve bruised myself on the dresser in my room. I’ve gotten various rugburns and mysterious scratches.
I am a magnet for injuries.
Last spring was probably the peak of my injury escapade. On my 20th birthday, I ran to Lighthouse Point, which was exhilarating, but also challenging in itself. It was only on the way back, just 20 feet outside the gate of the park, that I injured myself. I began a slow — I repeat, slow — jog after taking an expansive number of photos at the water. Somehow, I managed to fall forwards on the gravel road. I managed to not land on my face, but only because my palms took the brunt of the fall. And anyone who looked closely at me could tell. It looked like my palms got chewed by a werewolf. Bloody, gory and absolutely ridiculous. I didn’t even have some great story to tell about why my hands were bandaged at the beach over spring break.
Later in the semester, I managed to fracture my sacrum — commonly confused with the scrotum by some British men, apparently. Maybe I ran too much? Maybe it happened snowboarding earlier that winter? Who knows? The doctors certainly didn’t. They all asked me, “So, what happened?” and to that I answered, “I wish I knew.” So, I spent the last week of the semester and the beginning of the summer on crutches. Believe it or not, I am still dealing with that injury.
But my stupidest injury to date was way back in second grade: I cracked my head open. This is one of those injuries that I use as a fun fact in ice breakers or the misleading truth in lying games. The day started so plainly with me eating macaroni and cheese at a friend’s house. Trying to get a napkin, I climbed over the marble counter and hopped off into a crouched position on the floor. Without realizing that the counter extended just a little bit, I jumped up at full force, slamming my head into the bottom of the marble counter. I remember cradling my head with my hands, quickly realizing that something was wet. Looking at my hands, I saw red — a full-on Lady Macbeth moment for second-grade me. In the end, it wasn’t that bad. They stapled my head together at the emergency room, and I went home that same day. Today, there’s only a small dent in my head to tell the story.
Now, I just have to wait for the next shoe to drop. And if I know myself, it’ll probably leave a mark.