On March 31, a Monday, I went out to dinner with a friend. We were in a celebratory mood, and for the first time in about a year at least, I overindulged in my current favorite vice, a mojito. Just one, but it was about the size of a pint glass and SO tasty and as I said, I don't drink nearly often enough.
So I got completely smashed.
We both did, actually. Had a nice dinner at Rosa's on the harbor, staggered around the parking lot, looked at the stars, talked loudly and drunkenly and explicitly about sex. (Duh; what else do chicks talk about?)
And then I went home. Still a bit tipsy and uncoordinated, I attempted to, uh, flop onto the bed in an enticing manner, and fell a tiny bit ungracefully on an outstretched arm. *nasty grindy noise in the wrist* "That's going to hurt, later," I say.
So after two weeks of me bashing my thumb or doing something with my wrist, screaming in pain for ten minutes, and then me forgetting about it until about six hours later when I do it again, my sweetie insisted that I go see the doctor.
After three appointments, lots of poking and prodding ("Does this hurt?" - "No." - "How about now?" - "No." - "Now?" - "Nope." - "This?" "*scream*" [There's GOT to be a better way to examine a patient.]), and a dozen x-rays, the results came in. I seem to have fractured a tiny bone in my wrist/thumb area, and therefore get to wear a funky splint/cast thing for two weeks.
I've never broken a bone before, so this is all really quite interesting from a medical-technology perspective. It seems that the x-rays should come before the "making the patient scream" part of the exam. And speaking of the x-rays, how come I got a tiny little apron to cover my valuable girl-eggs, but nothing to protect, say, my heart or my brain, parts I actually consider USEFUL and IMPORTANT to my well-being?
The splint itself is also neat - the doctor said it's basically the same material as a cast, only just on one side of my wrist, and held on with an ace bandage once it formed to my arm and hardened. It's full of hard plasticy bits that poke me, though, and my thumb feels bruised from reflexively fighting it. I just hope I don't have to get the full-on plaster job, which is an option some specialist somewhere is considering. I might have to refuse medical treatment if they recommend a real cast, as this is already driving me bonkers.
So, to recap: I drank too much, had a sex-related accident, and broke a bone.
Bitter commentary: Ten years ago, a night of excess might have resulted in groping someone whose name I didn't know. Now, I break bones. I'm getting OLD.
Moral of the story: Need to drink more often; raise alcohol tolerance.