Every time I go to the fracture clinic at the hospital – which is often these days — I feel ashamed.
Why?
Everybody, except for me, has a great story about how they broke their whatsit.
Broken arms, collarbones, legs — you name the body part, and a great story comes with it.
There’s Eden, a teenager, who is aiming for the Olympics. She joined the boys’ ice hockey team in the spring to sharpen her skills.
“I’m 5’4″, they’re 6 feet plus”, she says.
During a skirmish, one player lands on her arm and — snap! “The bones were sticking out,” she says.
Next to her at the clinic, a young adult male tries to disguise his pride as he explains he broke his collarbone while skateboarding.
Then there’s the 20-something young woman who has now broken the same leg twice — first from playing basketball competitively, now from football.
“So what happened to you?” These brave warriors invariably turn to me.
Ugh! How do I say: “I got up, passed out and fell down”?
I need to save face. Can you please help?
I need a great story about how I got these breaks in my ankle.
Must be very short and semi-believable and mainly decent.
Funny, if possible.
The sooner the better, please.
Readers will tell me which story they like best. I’ll then sign a copy of either A Good Home or An Honest House and mail it to the winner.
Thank you for helping!
