The One With The Head Injury

I hit my head at work on Monday. I actually gave myself a mild concussion while trying to retrieve a pen from under the large, heavy, metal bar supported piece of equipment I work on.

*Pause*

I can see you are all not surprised.

Why? Just because I throw out my knee while turning in my kitchen and knock myself out while trying to pick a pen up off the floor does not mean I need to live in a bubble.

*Crickets*

Okay, maybe I should at least invest in a helmet. And perhaps elbow and knee pads.

My curse as the clumsy, accident-prone, disease and problem riddled person is really starting to wear on me in my older age.

When I was a kid it was frightening. I can remember at the age of six running up to my mother with blood streaming down my back from the head wound I received upon slamming my noggin into a brick fireplace. I do believe it was my mom who passed out that day rather than me.

When I was a teenager it was annoying. The summer I tried to pop a wheelie on my bike going downhill while chasing my brother, thus breaking my wrist in two places, caused me to miss out on such fun summer activities as swimming and horseback riding and showering. Falling out of a bunk bed with my cast on did nothing to booster my parents' belief I needed to be watched at all times.

When I was in college it was a right of passage...just more frequent with me. Having your stomach pumped is nothing new for someone testing out alcohol for the first time. Having to visit the Infirmary/Hospital because you have mono/scabies/walking pneumonia/cysts/alcohol poisoning was par for the course for me.

When I was in my twenties it was somewhat charming. I became the butt of jokes among my soon-to-be-married-into new family, especially when my dear loved ones regaled them with tales of my mishaps. Charming found it cute that I managed to hurt myself in the most peculiar ways. Until the first time I managed to shoot dry spaghetti past my glasses and into my eye while attempting to cook dinner one day. Having seen me almost blind myself while doing practically nothing he became more aware of the dangers involved with being married to someone like me.

Now in my thirties I am just tired of being the one that everything happens to. If there is a crack in the floor, I'll trip over it. If there is a bug in the room, it will fly up my nose. If someone warns against a giant black swamp monster terrorizing their neighborhood, that slimy creep would find a way to break into my backyard and nosh on my head. I have that kind of luck.

The thing I worry about is passing this malady on. I take after my father. In the klutz department we are two birds of a feather. Quite frankly I think my Dad was happy when I came around because then the focus went off of his inability to walk down the street without walking into a tree to trying to save the baby from impaling herself on her high chair. Between us we have over 150 stitches, several broken bones, untold number of sprains, numerous concussions as well as the completely baffling tales of how and when we get hurt. My Dad breaks his jaw saving some kids from a horrible sledding accident. I throw out my back keeping a kid from falling to his death off the jungle gym. I almost lose a finger and get lead poisoning from a pencil sharpener at school. My Dad slices open his leg with a chainsaw. We have had some interesting and bizarre injures. I always worry when we are in the same room together, mentally going over possible problems that our combined accident-prone beings will cause to occur. We are like two non-superheroes, combining forces to bring havoc upon ourselves. Accident Dad and Klutz Girl!

So what if I did inherit this Incident Gene, destined to always be the one who falls, gets hit, bleeds, and gets hurt? I would probably pass it on to any children we have. Perhaps it is only a firstborn issue since my brother doesn't seem to harbor much the same problem staying healthy and injury-free as I do. But then again he does take after my mother's side of the family more in build and height so it would make sense he would be more in control of his ability to not be a klutz. If our kids come out more like Charming I may be in the clear. However, I will have to deal with those issues his side of the family harbors, like the strong attachment to quoting movies incessantly and cooking food that makes you eat until you burst.