My friend Danielle once pointed out that she and I frequently hurt ourselves doing really mundane things. Like, if one of us ever ended up on crutches and someone asked us what happened, we wouldn’t have a badass story about mountain biking or skiing a black diamond slope. We’d say something like, “So, I was walking my dog….”
This was confirmed a week later, when I showed her a nasty scrape on my knuckle. “Ask me what happened,” I told her.
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She did, and I said, “So, I was zipping up my wallet…” I’ve also had to get stitches twice as the result of stories that basically start with, “So, I was making paper snowflakes” and “So, I was taking out the trash.”
This week the story starts out, “So, I was looking something up for a patron.” The rest of the story is pretty much this: “The phone rang. I picked up the receiver while I was still researching. I hit myself in the face with it.”
I didn’t think it was that bad, but when my friend Julie could tell where I hit myself several minutes later, I decided to ice it. It didn’t bruise, thankfully, but when people asked what happened, I mumbled, “So, yeah, I, uh, hit myself in the face with my phone.”