When were grown-up and living in New York, our bones will NEVER be broken!

When we're grown-up and living in New York, our bones will NEVER be broken!

Two days ago I woke up, wandered four feet into my living room, and dove face first into the tangled web of chords in the corner.  That right there is the face of unemployment.

Lying here with what may or may not be a broken toe has prompted me to muse on my past experiences with injuries.  Luckily there are few, as I’ve always been more susceptible to semi-unusual illnesses like Scarlet Fever, Shingles, and Pityriasis Rosea.  If it starts with an “S” or has multiple “S’s” in it, I’ve probably had it.  But in the broken bones department, I am a rare shopper.  Except for that one time I was six years old, it was snowing, and my mom and I were headed down to the frozen pond behind my house.  In an effort to practice safe mothering skills, my mom picked me up so that I rested on her hip, one small bundled up leg in front of her, and one in back.  As she put her foot down on a snow-covered patch of ice, she lost her balance, slid down the hill and landed on the ground.  Unfortunately, my right leg landed underneath her.

Back to present day Manhattan, fifteen years later: I became irrationally angry as I struggled to walk to the subway last night.  I should have been riding in the back of a red wagon.  My broken leg of yore resulted in my being pulled around as I sat like a princess in our family wagon.  My parents and sister took turns at the handle, rolling me around the neighborhood, my pink cast beaming under the winter sun.  I have never felt more important than I did those times I sat proudly in my red wagon, my large pink cast pointing majestically to the sky, a salute to all my neighbors.  The sympathy wasn’t so bad either.  Friends and family saw my pitiful appearance and took the time to draw painstakingly detailed pictures on my cast, a testament to my new place in society.  My sister looked on with pure jealously.  Before I was simply the spoiled youngest child; my accident in the woods transformed me into royalty.  No need to marry a prince when your mom can fall on you.

This time around I’ve received very little sympathy, probably because I have no one to blame but myself.  At the time of my accident I had my glasses on, was entirely sober, and had yet to engage in the distraction that is Bravo television programming.

Just as I experienced with my other broken bone, the novelty has proven transient.  I think I’ll give in and spend the money on some surgical tape to bring my toe back to life.  If people still won’t hold the door open for you when you’re visibly limping, there’s really no point in prolonging the pain.

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