Yeargh! Finger crushing!
I smashed my left middle finger today and broke it.
Not a clean break like my ribs, but squished like my collar bone back in 1998, a few months before Kris and I started dating. Kris and I were cleaning the front yard, as we have been doing every spare minute for the last, what, five years? I moved from the blueberry patch to the front rocks, ripping weeds out and avoiding the one or two flowers that somehow survived.
Why I thought I could move a twenty pound rock, pull the weeds out, and put it back without difficulty, is beyond me. Yet, strangely enough, a belief not really foreign to my mind.
I dropped the rock the last centimeter, the point of the rock landing straight across the top of the second joint on my left middle finger, crushing it. Of course, like all truly great crushings, it didn't hurt until I couldn't get my hand out from under the rock.
And then it hurt like hell.
I managed to melt two ice cubes icing the joint before I could move my finger again.
The smooshing made me think about the other bones I've broken: four ribs two years ago, another rib back in '94, another rib broken sneezing back in '90, my collar bone in '98 and maybe a toe when I was in the sixth grade.
At least it was my left hand, and I can still throw.