As much as I’ve been clamoring for travel, you’d think I’d be more excited — I mean, a trip!

But alas, no.

While I’m fully capable these days of walking for miles each day, I’m apparently incapable of making it out my back door without stumbling over my own feet. Fortunately, while it was a hard fall, I feel fortunate to have gotten off the hook with a few bruises, abrasions, and a dislocated finger.

Yeah. That kind of trip. Not the fun kind.

A couple of decades ago, I fell in a hotel parking lot after snagging my toe on broken concrete. When I fell, I dislocated the pinky finger on my left hand. Hubby promptly covered it (so I wouldn’t freak out, seeing my finger bent in a direction it wasn’t designed for), made me quit screaming obscenities, and stuck my hand in a hotel ice bucket. We’d been on our way to a nearby restaurant for a breakfast buffet, and yes, I’m gonna bust him out on my blog for asking me back then if I wanted to eat at the buffet before heading to the emergency room.

This trip to the emergency room was a bit less attended but more dramatic; I was home alone when I fell, and the nearest emergency room is about 25 miles away. The breakfast buffet wasn’t an option, but the ice was, so I grabbed an ice bag, my ego, stopped screaming obscenities in my own back yard, and drove myself to the ER.

Luckily, it wasn’t a long wait. I was already waiting on x-rays when hubby showed up, and at least the doctor was a bit kinder when he yanked the dislocated finger back into place. I now have a splint that won’t come off until sometime next week, and then the work to bend the finger and get it back into shape begins.

I’ve done it, before. I’ll do it, again. (And yes, this blog is laboriously long to write, working around one finger sticking out straight and surrounded by metal.)

I know what it was like to fall and dislocate a finger back when I was quite heavy (albeit, much younger than what I am, now). I also know that if I was still at my original weight, it would have been nearly impossible for me to get up off my concrete patio with one undamaged hand. And that’s assuming the damage would be the same; the force of an additional 200 pounds on my falling hand likely would have shattered my wrist or arm. As it is, it’s sore and has lots of psychedelic colors, but it’s not broken.

I suppose that I could have also looked at it the other way, too; if I still weighed 371 pounds, the chances of me trying to haul a plastic drawer unit to the back yard probably would be a lot less likely; back in those days, I was lucky to get around with a cane, let alone lift even the lightest of items.

While I’m not happy about injuring myself, I also know that it’s one of those things that can happen at any given moment, and I’m quite fortunate to have been in good shape when it happened. I’ll heal, although my neighbors’ ears may not!