Must. Write. Column. For. Paper. Today.
However, cannot. Can barely type. Broke stupid right wrist this week.
Had surgery involving plates and screws and will be setting off airport alarms for the rest of my life.
That's nothing, says Friend Louise when I brag about new wrist hardware. She totally sets off airport alarms with her underwire bra, she tells me.
Wow, I say. That's some bra, lady!
And then I dream Friend Louise and I set off airport alarms all over America in our Maidenform underwire bras.
Anyway, broke right wrist because of exercising. Exercising. I KNOW! IRONIC!
Was running down J Street in the Aves early one morning with Neighbor Kathy so we can be awesome fit-for-life old grannies with killer abs and possible buns of steel. And, in fact, was busy thinking about how awesome Neighbor Kathy and I are for exercising while everyone else is still in bed.
Then someone tripped (not Kathy) and rolled nonawesomely downhill.
I KNOW! PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL ON J STREET!
Limped home with Neighbor Kathy (although still stopped at Sinclair to buy cold can of Dr Pepper from Manager Warren).
Then made Youngest Son with brand-new license drive me out to my Doctor Brother's office for X-rays.
Drove all the way from Salt Lake to Bountiful with emergency brake on.
Didn't notice. Possibly we were distracted?
X-ray confirms breakage. Time for surgery!
Doctors promise, promise, promise 99.9 percent I won't be like guest star character on "Grey's Anatomy" or "House" who can feel pain even under anesthesia but can't make surgeons stop cutting because of stupid oxygen mask issues and numb nonfunctioning body parts.
Had my doubts.
Turned out doctors were right. Didn't feel a thing.
Thank you, Dr. Huish!
Since then have been trying to figure out how do life stuff with left hand.
As Friend Kevin says, "You never know how much you use your right hand until you don't use your right hand."
Hardest thing is pulling up pants, even though am now wearing old-lady stretchy pants because of injury. Brushing teeth — hard. Putting on mascara — hard. Also dangerous because of potential for surprising eye-poke.
Hair-washing VERY hard thing.
Made husband do it for me. Husband did his best and was good guy, but, OK, definitely you can tell husband went to law school, not beauty school.
On whole, hair-washing experience was sort of like getting waterboarded. Water in eyes. Water in nose. Water in mouth.
Water in throat.
"Hey you," I said to sweet non-licensed noncosmetologist husband. "Maybe you should drive over to Sean Hannity's house and wash HIS hair so he can see for self that Waterboarding = Possible Torture."
Husband not sure where Sean Hannity lives. Probably unlisted address. Probably Sean Hannity afraid of strangers showing up at house all the time to wash his hair.
Anyway. So sorry I don't have a column for you this week. Love and a thousand apologies.
Will try harder next week.
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