Insult to injuries

In 6th grade I broke my wrist while riding a bike. I wasn't jumping ramps or popping wheelies; I just spaced out and plowed my bike into a parked car. I hoped, while sitting in the emergency room, that I'd be able to parlay my injury into grade-school celebrity. The kids would clamor to sign my cast, or at least take a week-long break from ceaseless social torture. But sadly, the hospital gave me a fabric cast, which was basically signature-proof. I told my classmates that I'd broken my wrist while skateboarding.

Last week, in my office gym, I had another graceless accident: My right ankle buckled underneath me while I was warming up on the elliptical machine. With my heart beating at a rate just above “coma,” I toppled sideways, onto the adjacent treadmill, in view of several coworkers.

As you can see, my injuries don’t make for very good stories. And as I limped my way through eight dozen family events this weekend (friend’s wedding shower, cousin’s post-wedding brunch, brother’s graduation, mother's day), many concerned aunts and uncles asked me what happened. I tried to be vague, saying that I sprained my ankle at the gym. I hope they imagined me almost landing some martial arts acrobatics in kickboxing class. At my age, skateboarding is just not very believable.