A Chick Called Mick

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.

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."