Last Saturday I had a small dinner party my house. We sat on the deck with friends, ate some steaks, and drank a few glasses of red wine as we laughed and contemplated the sunset.
After dark, someone had the brilliant idea to drive to the grocery store and buy cookies, because I don’t keep sugar in the house. My vote was stay at home and eat some fresh fruit for dessert, like adult humans.
I was called “Food Police” and “ A lightweight who can’t hold her liquor;” then someone yelled “What is wrong with you we really want some damn cookies!!!”
I announced my intention to stay at home and invited all those in the house to do as they pleased. They ALL LEFT on their cookie-buying mission. There I was, in my kitchen alone.
My inner dialogue went: “What a bunch of sugar-addicted punks! Well, I’ll just go ahead and clean the kitchen. AH, GREAT!! THE DISHWASHER IS FULL OF CLEAN DISHES! WHY DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF?!?”
I then instantly forgot the dishwasher door was WIDE OPEN, two inches from the floor, at my feet. I turned around and WHAM! My foot slammed into it and I started a full body pinwheel, heading right for that dishwasher door.
The good news? I was completely relaxed. My mind and body communicated. I twisted myself into a left-facing magic ninja curl and missed the dishwasher, then hit the floor with almost all of my weight on my shoulder.
^&#*$%*%!!! Mission accomplished!! I GUESS!
It hurt, gentle readers. It hurt like a mofo. My pride has never been so wounded. My shoulder also radiated pain. You can guess what happened next. Of course. I GOT UP AND FINISHED THE DISHES. I did not tell anyone what happened.
When everyone came back, I ate two bites of a cookie, refused to drink more red wine because “it goes with the chocolate,” and went upstairs. This is my normal behavior, so no one thought anything was wrong.
In reality my shoulder was killing me, but I was too embarrassed to say anything. After our friends left, I confessed to my husband, who LAUGHED SO HARD HE FELL DOWN AND HURT HIS OWN ANKLE.
On Sunday, it hurt worse and worse until I couldn’t stand the pain any longer, I told my husband I had to go to Urgent Care. He said “Um, that’s like $300. Can’t you just go buy a sling?” I gave him the Hairy Eyeball Look reserved for husbands who suggest their wives don’t spend $300 on The Urgent Care.
Later that day, after paying the $300, I got an x-ray and the diagnosis: Separated shoulder. Treatment? Go buy a sling.
Once I had the sling on, I could no longer avoid telling my friends what happened. Hilarity ensued. I’m glad I can bring so much laughter to the world by examining my pain!