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Friday, March 12, 2010

Alive and Sort Of Well

Rest assured; I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. I’m alive – and sort of well. My excuse for silence in the blogosphere is a broken wrist. The immobility has affected my day-to-day life (not to mention my ego) more than I thought it would. Have you ever tried shaving your left armpit with the razor in your left hand? It’s no picnic. Or starting your car left-handed? Think about it: You have to reach up and under the steering wheel and across your body just to get the engine roaring. Hair-straightening is also a drag. And don’t even get me started on typing. (I’ve been hunting and pecking for fifteen minutes already.) My texting has been extra slow lately; often I dream up wildly brilliant and witty messages to send specific folks on my contact list, but I can’t muster the energy to pound them out one-handed. (I’m going on twenty-five minutes.)

The temporary splint that my twerp of an orthopedic surgeon gave me – after he re-broke my hand to "set" it – is becoming quite loose. I’m not sure whether this is a good or bad thing. (Bad because the splint is no longer providing the support I need? Good because the swelling has gone down? Bad because I’m losing all muscle in my forearm, which now looks like it belongs to an eight-year-old child?) Regardless, I’m getting a real cast on Monday at 8:20 a.m. Doctor Twerp says it may have to go up and around my elbow, even though he originally assured me I’d have full arm-bending abilities. On Monday, if in fact he suggests elbow immobility, I’m taking my business elsewhere.

Monday, March 1, 2010

"Say it, like—make it sound really snowboardy."

As told to Jeff, the willing scribe. (Because this would have taken me all night to type, what with one hand and all.)

This weekend, the Olympics inspire me to delve into the winter wonderland that is Mt. Bachelor. I dream of snowboarding with the Olympians who hurl themselves 30 feet into the air, twisting and flipping with impossible precision.

I learn the hard way that just because I look awesome in my snow gear doesn’t mean I’ll slice up the mountain like The Flying Tomato. After five successful chairlift rides to and from the bunny hill–where I practice nasty misty flips, grasping the edge of the board and completing my tricks with 360-degree tail jumps (um, yeah, in my dreams)–I decide I'm ready for the black diamond run at the top of the mountain. The chairlift comes just as fast as it always does, and I hop on fearlessly.

I am confident, cocky, like Lindsey Vonn.

Right as I decide that I’m way too cool and talented to wear my helmet, I run through my mental checklist re: deplaning. I realize three things:

1) This chair is more crowded than a Farmer’s Market on Memorial Day weekend.

2) My snowboard doesn’t have an autopilot setting; it requires steering.

3) The ramp is approaching way too fast, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

I come to clutching my right arm, a 48-year-old, wrist guard-clad ski patrolman hoisting me to my feet and up the stairs to the first aid office. Playfully, he clicks his wrist guards together and looks at Jeff, the cute boy I’ve had the pleasure of shredding with: “I wear these puppies all the time. You should think about getting her some for her next b-day.”

My balance is gone, my head is spinning, and I look for the nearest bucket to puke in. A new ski patrolman rips my mitten off and tells me that since no bones are protruding through my skin, my wrist probably isn't broken. After the nausea wears off, I’m hurled into a made-for-snow stretcher and wrapped like a mummy beneath a neon yellow tarp. The ski patrolman secures me and hooks the toboggan to his waist in preparation for a bumpy ride down Mt. Bachelor.

Inside the ski patrol offices, I quickly scrawl left-handed check marks and signatures on the waiver in front of me, signing away any liability for the mountain and it’s staffand any chance of covering my non-insured butt. They check my vital signs and send me on my merry way.

I find the bar and drink beer for the rest of the day.

(And, yes, my wrist is as broken as a Haitian sewer line.)