I suffered one of the more bizarre injuries of my life this morning, so I’ll offer it up as a little glimpse into the life of a writer. :rofl:
The short kid likes to arrive at school at the earliest allowed second so as to maximize his playground time. So I was sitting on the couch, bent over, trying to wrestle his feet into his snow pants while he had one hand on my shoulder to steady himself.
Well, he lost his balance and tightened his grip on my shoulder like some kind of Vulcan on crack. I don’t know what nerve he managed to hit, but I screamed and hit the floor. Hard. I think I even twitched a little.
Then, even though I had tears streaming down my face I started to laugh because the short kid was fumbling around with my hip and I thought he was actually trying to help me up. Yeah, good luck with that. Then I realized he was trying to get my cellphone out of its clip.
Holy crap, please don’t call 911!
The pain faded as quickly as it had come—y’all know how those nerve pinches are—other than a very slight tenderness and the short kid only lost about two minutes of playground time because we were running miraculously ahead of schedule for once.
It ain’t all boas and bon-bons, that’s for sure. :crazy:
:lmao: Tell the short kid he’s the Hulk, with powers beyond measure.
(Because one smiley isn’t enough…)
Okay, for the record, the poor wittle short kid was not traumatized.
He was positively gleeful.
All those people trying to accuse the Smart Bitches of being gleeful? They don’t know from gleeful.
The short kid wants to call 911. I’m not sure if he just wants to use the knowledge or if he thinks he’ll get a prime spot on GMA, but he says “Oooh, oooh, can I call 911?” a lot.
He just thought me too incapacitated to stop him this time.
He’s so smart! He was probably traumatized. :popcorn: