Well, my year of freak medical maladies continues.  Last night while attempting to shove a cardboard box into the outdoor trash bin, I sprained my left thumb.  My thumb! On my left hand! The one I write with.  I didn’t even know it was possible to sprain your thumb.  That is until it actually happened and I almost passed out by the trash bin after screaming loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood.

The Southerner wrapped my hand in this make-shift bandage (ie. old pair of pantyhose) and tried to refrain from laughing at me.  Just a few days ago, he made the comment “if I were an insurance company and saw your name on the list of potential insurees, I would run like hell.” At which point I scoffed and reminded him that I only go to the doctor for two reasons: 1. I need birth control and they will not renew your prescription unless you go for an annual visit.  2.  I learn that there is a possibility that I might have crotch cancer (Which, by the way, I don’t. Yay!).

For all other medical emergencies, I have him.  Duh.  He didn’t go to medical school for nothing, right?

Not being able to use the thumb on my dominant hand is trying my patience at the moment.  It turns out that your thumb is a really important part of making your whole hand work.  Who would have known! It’s only what makes us human after all.