Thanks mostly to a potent mix of stupidity, tequila, and my own interminable love of over-enthusiastic wrestling matches, I’ve managed to break a bone. (I did tempt fate that night by saying I’d never broken one before, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by the outcome, really.)
Not being one to ever do anything the half-assed way, I of course managed a really nasty, painful break in my right wrist. After seven hours in the ER, three different sets of x-rays, and numerous doctors dropping by to poke me about, stick needles in me, and ask me quite seriously if I’d been assaulted, they sent me home in a cast that runs from my fingertips to my bicep, with a handful of painkillers and no assurances that I wouldn’t need to be back for surgery in a week.
The ensuing week has been a bit of a mess, but it’s taught me all sorts of valuable lessons already.